


A Box Full of Darkness

by TheFandomLesbian



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Beta Read, Bisexual Aaron Hotchner, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Gay Spencer Reid, HotchReid - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Jemily on the side, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, POV Aaron Hotchner, POV Spencer Reid, Slash, Slow Burn, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 174,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFandomLesbian/pseuds/TheFandomLesbian
Summary: After leaving a cryptic message with JJ, Spencer takes a few days off to go on an adventure of self-discovery. Aaron fears the worst and goes after him. Unbeknownst to them, someone else is following them and knows their every step, leaving behind a string of bodies. As Spencer and Aaron grow together, a pillar of darkness seeks to tear them apart. Will the BAU catch the stalker-turned-killer in time to save them both?Takes place in season 7.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid
Comments: 352
Kudos: 320





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphicScribble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphicScribble/gifts).



> Big thanks to StrawberryKatsuki for volunteering to be my betareader :) It's much appreciated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! 
> 
> This is the first story I've written for the Criminal Minds fandom since I was in middle school, so needless to say, I have a LOT of anxiety about posting this. Please let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> I have a Tumblr at thefandomlesbian, where I'll post news about updates and more as needed. 
> 
> Thank you!

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” -Mary Oliver 

…

Spencer Reid did not often experience confusion. But here he was, clutching Gideon’s letter again—again, like he hadn’t memorized the words. He clutched it now when he wanted to feel the paper beneath his fingertips. Rocking back and forth on his sofa, he gazed at the tattered paper. The words had faded from the years of being battered around in his wallet. He returned here whenever he needed answers. 

The answers he sought now would not erupt from this ancient, tattered piece of paper. But the crinkling against his fingertips soothed him nonetheless. He repeated it, focusing on the grounding of the stimulation. 

His new upstairs neighbors had an old television. It emitted a high-pitched electronic whine whenever they turned it on. It drove him  _ insane. _ He was fortunate he wasn’t home often enough for it to become a regular disturbance, but now it whirred overhead again, something they certainly couldn’t hear but he certainly could. Very few people ever heard the noise electronics made the way he did. That was why he disliked them—or part of the reason, anyway. 

Paper was stimulating. Paper felt good under his fingertips. Tablets and computers were sensory hell with their bright, blue light backdrops. Paper was familiar. 

Donning his headphones, Spencer pressed  _ play _ on his walkman CD player. The headphones sealed off the external sounds of the apartment, the lights and his neighbors’ television.  _ Maybe I ought to buy them a new television. _ Would that be too forward, replacing an outdated electronic with a newer, quieter one? Perhaps. Would it be worth the exchange of no longer hearing the electrical whine whenever he was trying to relax or think? The pleasant sounds of Für Elise floated to his ears, droning out the other nuisances. 

_ Think. _ He needed to think. He folded the corner of Gideon’s note back and forth, fidgeting with it. 

_ “Reid.” The summoning made him lift his head. He stole a glance back at the board, but the inclination of Hotch’s head indicated he had no intention of speaking about the case. Spencer followed him from the conference room. Hotch closed the door behind them so JJ couldn’t hear their exchange. “If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at me.” Hotch’s dark eyes glittered under the fluorescent lights of the police station. _

_ The glint sent Spencer’s heart thundering in his chest. He carefully avoided eye contact. It was easier to stare off to the side, at the slope of Hotch’s shoulder. “I can’t.” He swallowed, licking his chapped lips. “I didn’t come to your house crying for ten weeks.” He ducked his head, starting to shuffle away in the hopes of Hotch letting him escape with ease.  _

_ Hope, however, had never served him as much as he would’ve liked. Hotch caught him by the shoulder with the heel of his hand. He guided him into the corner. Spencer pressed his mouth into a tight, nervous line. He stole glances at Hotch’s face, trying to gauge his expressions without making eye contact. His whole body warmed at the contact of Hotch’s hand against his shoulder. Sweat prickled on his skin. “Then maybe you should have.”  _

_ Hotch’s hot breath fanned across his face—he glanced up and decided,  _ No, we’re not close enough for that, I just imagined it _ , but the imagination didn’t detract from the sensation. Hotch held him at arm’s length. “I—I couldn’t.” His voice wanted to remain trapped in his throat. “You weren’t here. You were in the Middle East.”  _

_ “Exactly. I ran.” Spencer blinked in surprise. It was an admission, but it was stated like an imperative; he didn’t know how to interpret it, or what type of response Hotch wanted from him. “I decided to lie to several people who are very important to me, and instead of sticking around to handle it myself, I requested a transfer overseas effective immediately and left JJ to pick up the pieces of a decision I made.” Spencer’s face twitched at the flat statement. “I tasked her with the assembly of the false identities, with the accumulation of the bank accounts, and then I left her to comfort four of our grieving friends because I couldn’t do it.” What was Hotch doing? Admitting himself a coward? He still wasn’t blinking as he said it. Spencer couldn’t stop blinking, and his fingers slid up and down the dark denim of his pants, seeking some sensation. “Every time she saw you, she called me and asked me, begged me, to make an exception for the team, or even just for you, sometimes in tears herself—and every time, I told her no, we couldn’t compromise Prentiss like that, regardless of who it hurt. And I didn’t have to look at any of you until the decision was made to bring her back.”  _

_ Spencer’s eyes burned. He wanted to cry again, but crying in front of Hotch would be one of the most embarrassing things he had ever done, so he bit the inside of his cheek and focused on the pattern of the hems of the pockets of his jeans where his fingers traced them. Hotch raised his eyebrows. “Does that change your mind about who deserves your anger?”  _

_ Logically, Spencer knew it should, at least in part. Logically, he knew JJ had not made any executive decisions about what happened to Emily. Logically, he knew she would have been reprimanded for compromising Emily’s location, possibly even fired. Spencer considered himself a man of logic. But no logic could explain the splintering sensation in his chest, like someone had dropped a glass vase inside of him and the shards and fragments impaled his cells from the inside out. “It should,” he acknowledged, “but… it doesn’t.”  _

_ For whatever stupid reason, Spencer couldn’t be angry with Hotch. He couldn’t be angry because that other feeling, that unfamiliar feeling, shattered him, so similar to the shattering he’d felt when JJ told them Emily had died. And when it shattered him, he lost all of his anger.  _

Since they’d come home, Spencer spent a lot of time thinking about the feeling. He had reached one name for it in conclusion: heartbreak. 

This raised another serious question for Spencer: Why would being deceived by Hotch make him so heartbroken? Sure, he’d initially felt it about JJ’s betrayal, but it hadn’t taken more than a few days for the shock to wear off and utter fury to replace it. He’d had weeks now to consider what Hotch had said to him, and he still wasn’t angry, and he still was hurt. Why? It made no sense. Hotch had no reason to prioritize him over the rest of the team, nor had he ever given any indication he would do such a thing on Spencer’s behalf. He had no reason to expect Hotch would treat him differently or care about his feelings. Why was he so fixated on this? 

For the same reason, he supposed, Hotch kept appearing in his dreams, and the same reason his touch was so polarizing compared to everyone else’s. (Of course, Spencer never  _ liked _ to be touched, but with Hotch, it set him aflame with some mingling adoration and terror and robbed him of his ability to focus on anything else, somehow simultaneously sensory bliss and sensory hell, which elicited confusion, and Spencer did not like to be confused, so he spent his days avoiding any physical contact with Hotch while also wondering with mixed dread and awe when it would happen again.) Spencer had a great suspicion about himself, increasingly confirming itself each time he dreamed about lying in Hotch’s embrace. 

But he had to be sure. 

Unfortunately, this was not a matter he could validate by opening a textbook (and he had opened a great many in this attempt). Spencer never confirmed biases within himself. 

_ If I were a science experiment, I would have a control group and an experimental group. _ In this case, he imagined the experiment. The control group would be women and the experimental group men, and he would report his findings after each encounter in a journal and eventually reach a conclusion to confirm or reject his hypothesis. 

However, because he was not an experiment and because he found the idea of sleeping around with strangers for the sake of science incredibly icky, he fell to plan B: Consult an expert. 

He needed an expert on Spencer Reid, someone who didn’t see him through rose-tinted glasses. Not himself… He ground his jaw. Ordinarily, he confided in Morgan or Emily or JJ. But this wasn’t a question he wanted to ask Morgan, and now he had lost confidence in JJ. And Emily? He didn’t know if she could be unbiased, and he couldn’t have her projecting her own experiences onto him when she gave him an answer. He was going to have to leave Virginia to find another unaffiliated party who was also an expert on Spencer Reid.

But Hotch was right. He had behaved badly. His behavior with JJ was uncalled for—his anger was misplaced. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t direct it where it truly belonged. Guilt plagued him. If his suspicions were correct, he had deceived her—had deceived all of them, really, about who he was. He needed to apologize. 

Pausing Beethoven from playing in his ears, Spencer reached for his phone. JJ was still his first speed dial from the sheer number of times he had called her, sick with grief. And in spite of everything, she picked up on the first ring. “Spence?”

Remorse pierced him. “JJ?” Her voice was so familiar and soft, like coming home. “I, um… I needed to apologize.”

“Spence, no, you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Yeah, I did. I didn’t—I didn’t have any right to talk to you that way, and I’m sorry.” 

“You were hurt. You had every right to be upset.  _ I’m _ sorry.” 

Spencer licked his lips. “I know you did what you had to do to protect her, since she’s your…” He drifted off. JJ hadn’t named her affiliation with Emily, and it wasn’t his business to invade their nomenclature. “…and I know you’d do it to protect me, too, or any of us. I shouldn’t have been so angry. It wasn’t right.” He trailed off, thinking. “Listen, I—I need a few days.” 

“A few days?” JJ repeated. 

“Yeah. A week, maybe. I, um…” He bit his lower lip. What was a good explanation? The truth, if only part of it, maybe. “I think I’m going to go see my mom.” Should he add on? Make it more believable? “I mean, because—because I tell her things in my letters, and I haven’t seen her in so long anyway, but I think I’ve got some things to tell her that will be easier to say in person.” 

She sounded perplexed, but she accepted it. “Okay, Spence, take as long as you need.”

“You’ll tell the others?” 

“Sure. Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need anything?”

“No—No. Thanks, JJ.” Spencer listened to her breathing on the end of the line for another long moment before he ended the call. 

She had believed him, at least as far as he could tell—and beyond that, he didn’t really care. He had a journey to embark upon, one of self-discovery, and he couldn’t hang on the team now.  _ Just like in all the novels. _ Spencer had never cared for fiction much, but now, he was Frodo. He packed his bags, prepared to head to Las Vegas. 

…

Aaron sat behind his desk above the bullpen, paperwork sprawled before him—paperwork seemed like a fitting distraction from everything in his head right now. As he worked, he sipped his coffee. One of the papers had a coffee ring on it. He hoped Strauss didn’t notice. Lately, he had trouble sleeping, though for different reasons than before. 

Before, every night, he heard Haley die. He awoke in a cold sweat, and he crawled into Jack’s twin-sized bed with him, where he somehow slept more restfully than anywhere else. Perhaps the discomfort in the twin bed made it impossible for his brain to conjure up something  _ worse _ than half of his body dangling off of a mattress trying to keep from rolling over onto Jack in odd contortionist mannerisms until finally the exhaustion wore him down to sleep. He dreaded the nightmares, but at least he knew he could make them go away by smelling Jack’s hair. He prayed that, by the time Jack was old enough to tell him to get the hell out of his bed, he had a handle on the nightmares. 

These days, though, Haley and Foyet featured less often in his sleeping hours. He had anxiously awaited this day to come, but instead, the nightmares had been replaced by some of the most uncomfortable dreams he had ever had before in his life. 

It was Reid. Of course it was Reid. If it had been anyone else, he might’ve been more comfortable with it— _ no, no, _ he reminded himself,  _ other people would be worse. _ As much as the dreams about Reid made him squirm internally (never betraying any of this in public, masking himself better than Batman), the matter would be  _ worse _ if it had been Dave, or Garcia, or Morgan. At least Reid was his type. 

Massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Aaron stared at the paperwork. His  _ type? _ He had almost forgotten he had ever had a  _ type. _ He and Haley had met in high school, and the break they had taken in college seemed so fleeting in comparison to the rest of their lives together—a two year break, enough to learn more about himself and enough to know he wanted to spend the rest of his life with one person, with Haley. Indeed, he knew he had a  _ type _ , both for men and for women. He liked independent, capable women who knew what they wanted and would ask him for it. He liked quieter, more bookish, subtle, quirky men. 

But he wasn’t ready to  _ like _ anyone, probably ever again. 

Just the thought made him itchy in his suit. 

He had considered it once when Jessica had asked,  _ “Doesn’t Jack deserve a mother?” _ He had looked at her, brow furrowed, and insisted,  _ “He has one.” _ He wouldn’t let Haley disappear from their collective memory so easily, and he surely wouldn’t try to replace her, not for himself and not even for Jack. But later that night he had tossed and turned and sweated profusely at the mere suggestion. 

Haley had lived her life fearful his job would rob her of her husband, Jack of his father, and in a twist of devastating irony, it robbed her of her life instead. His job, which Haley always touted as too dangerous, had reared its ugly head and stolen her away. He already battled the chronic fear, the constant worrying, that the same would happen to Jack. He couldn’t face the anxiety of roping another partner into this life and putting them at risk, as well. 

No, Foyet had sealed his fate. He was a widower and bachelor for life. He wouldn’t make the mistake of allowing someone else near to him so they could be hurt by this life. The BAU was his choice. His decisions had hurt too many people already. 

_ People like Reid. _ His mind kept drawing back to Reid. Had he been too frank with him?  _ I needed him to stop antagonizing JJ. _ JJ was too good of an agent to have Reid at her throat during an active investigation. More than that, Aaron couldn’t allow another woman to take the fall for his choices, however minor. But since the confrontation, Reid had become as skittish as a deer around him—not that that was unusual for Reid. The man, for all of his genius, could be somewhat fickle with his mood swings. And Aaron hadn’t made a point of keeping him close, either. He didn’t deliberately avoid him for fear of raising suspicions. But he didn’t seek out his company. He needed no more fodder for the dreams. 

Gazing at the white papers upon his desk, he tilted his head, remembering the dream from last night. Reid’s hair had smelled like cinnamon. He remembered it so distinctly, the cinnamon and spice aroma rising from him, something he had recognized unconsciously after years of working beside him but which only struck him as  _ Reid _ now when his subconscious drew it to his attention. Reid had turned, nude, in his arms and rested his cheek upon Aaron’s chest, and Aaron had cradled him, petting him and relishing in his touch. 

Years had guided Aaron into an expert at masking his emotions. He had no doubt he could continue to lead his team without any incidents, Reid included. It didn’t even hurt, knowing Reid would never feel anything for him—he expected it. Haley had hardened his resolve by teaching him those he loved would scarcely love him back in the same way. No, he didn’t want anything from Reid (in fact, all he  _ wanted _ was for the dreams to go away), but he didn’t like knowing he had hurt him. 

He had hurt his whole team. Dave had been furious with him—and Aaron was glad he was the proper recipient of the anger, not Emily and certainly not JJ. He’d listened to Dave’s list of grievances, his brief rage-filled arrogant ravings, and then he had come down with tears in his eyes and relief lifting from his shoulders, and Aaron was grateful it was over. Morgan had his misgivings about the situation, Aaron knew, but he was too grateful to have Emily back to care, and Garcia was too kind and bright to lash out at any of them. 

Reid, though, Reid was frail. His headaches haunted him. He struggled to sleep. His chattery little brain never quieted enough for him to know any peace. His education had fast-tracked him through life and left him a vulnerable adult who had never really learned how to be a child but still hadn’t grown into his father’s shoes. Aaron hadn’t anticipated how much this would impact him.  _ I should have. _ Reid had confided in Emily. It took so much for him to trust authority figures after what his parents had forced him to endure—Aaron knew this, he knew he still didn’t fully have Reid’s trust, knew that Reid had only ever really trusted Gideon and Gideon alone—and then everyone had broken that fickle bond. 

_ I need to talk to him. _ He hadn’t heard Reid mention the  _ movies _ in quite a long time. That didn’t mean Reid wasn’t  _ going _ to the movies, but it made the hair on the back of Aaron’s neck stand up, thinking of the risk it posed. His team had fought a war and won. They couldn’t afford to lose Reid now. 

He couldn’t afford to lose Reid now. 

However silly it was, Reid brought him some wry form of joy, the way he rambled at random and reveled in his statistics and piddled with his magic physics rockets and always wore that goofy, sheepish half-smirk. Aaron had so few sources of joy left in his life. He didn’t want to risk losing one of them. 

A quick rap at his office door drew his attention. Aaron lifted his head from his paperwork, though he hadn’t marked on the page in the last ten minutes at least. “JJ,” he greeted. Her solemn expression filled the room with thick tension. “Come in.” 

She entered the room, standing in front of his desk and shifting her weight from foot to foot. As she halted, she squared up, crossing her arms and setting her jaw. “Spencer called me this morning. He said he needs to take a few days off.” She lingered in front of his desk at the statement, planting herself there, a tree with its roots anchoring it to the ground. 

Aaron waited with bated breath. She didn’t finish, so he ventured, “He has unused PTO. If he needs a few days, he can take a few days.” 

JJ sighed. “You know that’s not why I’m concerned.” Aaron raised his eyebrows, encouraging her to continue. “I think he’s relapsed.”

“He’s been clean for almost five years. What makes you think that?” Aaron pretended his heart didn’t skip a beat at JJ’s words, pretended JJ had no reason to suspect, but the little voice in his head whispered,  _ She’s his best friend; she knows him better than anyone; she wouldn’t bring it up if she didn’t have valid cause for concern, _ and other damnations. 

“When he called me this morning, he apologized to me. Spencer—he doesn’t interpret messages the right way all the time, you know that. He would never apologize over something like that. Not unless he was feeling  _ extremely  _ guilty about something else.”

_ She has a point. _ “Something he can’t say,” Aaron mused. His heart sank. Nobody knew Reid better than JJ. “Has he been going to NA?” 

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. “No, he—he stopped a few years ago. He said he was learning things about drug use there that he didn’t want to know.”  _ Nobody is more creative with drugs than a bunch of addicts talking to each other for an hour. _ “It wasn’t just what he  _ said _ , Hotch. He didn’t sound right. He sounded really—really  _ lost _ . Like he didn’t know what to do with himself.” 

“Is he staying in town?” 

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He said he was going to see his mother to tell her some things in person. He said she wouldn't understand in a letter.” 

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” 

JJ shrugged. “I—I think so.” She looked up at him, unfolding her arms for the first time since she entered his office. “Do you want me to go check on him? I can try to catch him before he makes it to the airport…” 

Aaron shook his head. “No. I’ll go.” He pushed back from his desk, stacking things in a neat order so it appeared he had tried to repair the state of disarray he had created. “Call me if you need anything.” 

Her brow quirked. “You’re not going to Nevada, are you?” 

He frowned. His eyes darted up to JJ’s face, holding contact. “If that’s where Reid is, then I guess I am.” He couldn’t leave Reid to wander the world alone, especially if he had relapsed. But something prickled in the back of Aaron’s mind. Why would Reid go to Las Vegas if he had relapsed? That wasn’t something he would advertise to his mother of all people, nor would he be particularly fit to board a plane. Aaron was hopeful JJ was wrong. 

But if she was, what on earth had prompted this sudden shift in his demeanor?

Giving a curt nod to JJ, Aaron passed by her on his way out of the office. He strode out of the bullpen. Eyes followed him; he ignored them. JJ would fill them in. Catching up with Reid was imperative if he didn’t want to take a flight to Las Vegas. He stopped only at the office door of Penelope Garcia, drumming his fingers against the wood.  _ She never has her door closed.  _

“Sir?” Aaron turned at the summoning. Garcia stood there, bags spilling over on herself, keys in her hand and extended as if to unlock the door only to find him blocking her path. He stepped back from her trail to the door to allow her passage, but she held his gaze. “What’s wrong?”  _ What’s wrong? _ “I mean, not that anything would be wrong, just that I’m not late, and you’re here, so there must be a reason you’re here, but of course you can be here any time, it’s just a matter of…” She paused, gulped, and then amended, “What can I do for you today, sir?” as she approached the door and quickly unlocked it, entering the dark room. 

Garcia flicked on a switch, and all of the screens illuminated the office. “I may need some information from you later. I’m giving you the heads up now because it needs to be kept under the table.” 

“Under the table, sir?” she repeated. “What—What kind of information are we talking about?”

_ No need to worry her without cause.  _ He had no reason to think Reid was unsafe yet. As far as he knew, Reid was still at his home, packing his bags and preparing everything he needed to make an impromptu trip across the country. “I’ll call you if I need you. But anything we discuss cannot leave this room. Is that understood?” 

She gulped.  _ I’ve already worried her. _ “Yes, sir.” 

Aaron nodded to her. “Thank you, Garcia.”  _ Time to get her flowers again. _ After everything she had done for this team, she deserved a reward. She needed to know she was appreciated. He left her office and headed for the elevator. 

The road to Reid’s apartment was busy, everyone caught in traffic on their way to work, and after too long a period of time, Aaron parked in the guest lot. He paused outside the building, surveying it, judging it.  _ Low crime area. _ It was a nice complex.  _ I’ve never been here before. _ He wondered if anyone in the team had.  _ JJ, probably, and Prentiss. Maybe Garcia and Morgan.  _ Entering the front door, Aaron followed the carpeted staircase up to the fourth floor. Another stretch of bland, patterned carpet spanned before him.

The upstairs neighbors thumped around.  _ That must drive Reid crazy. _ Reid had once marched across the silent, mostly empty bullpen, stood beneath the black-screened television resting innocently and quietly on the wall, and ripped the plug from the wall, announcing,  _ “I can’t take that noise anymore.” _ No one else had noticed the electrical whine stemming from the television, but for Reid, the buzzing was tormenting. 

Aaron paused outside of Reid’s apartment door. He cracked his knuckles against the wood in this nondescript hallway of this nondescript apartment building which held a man who was exactly the opposite of nondescript. “Reid?” he called. He put his eye to the peephole, but he couldn’t see through to the other side. “Reid, open up.” Perhaps he couldn’t issue an imperative to Reid while they weren’t at work, but he knew Reid would respond to a direct order no matter the circumstances. He went belly up when he was tasked assertively. 

But the door did not open.  _ I must have missed him. _ Aaron reached up to the top of the door frame, feeling around, but Reid kept no key there, nor did he have a welcome mat or any sort of decorative stone to hide a key beneath.  _ He has an eidetic memory. He would never misplace his keys. He has no need to keep an extra. _ And Aaron had no just cause to break down his apartment door to investigate. 

“Pardon me, young man?” Aaron faced the woman who had spoken, her voice—and her words, referring to Aaron as a  _ young man _ —betraying her age. Wrinkles set deep into her face. “I’m sorry, but if you’re looking for Spencer, you’ve missed him. He’s going out of town. He asked me to get his mail and water his succulents while he’s away.” 

Tilting his head, Aaron gazed back at her. “So you saw Spencer this morning?” She nodded. “How did his behavior seem to you? Was he acting erratically?”

Her brows knitted together at the questions. “Who are you exactly?”

Aaron held up his badge. “SSA Aaron Hotchner. I’m a colleague of Spencer’s.” 

This relieved the tense lines around her face. “Oh, of course, Agent.” She gave a somewhat sheepish smile. “To be honest with you, I was a little concerned. He seemed… Well, he seemed frightened, I suppose. Like he was running from something. He left in a hurry and said he had to see his mother. I just assumed it was a family emergency. I always get his mail and water his plants while he’s away. That’s actually what I was about to do just now.” 

“How long ago did Spencer leave?” 

She considered. “An hour and a half, maybe. He said he had booked the next flight to Las Vegas and had to run.”  _ I’ll never catch up to him. _ Aaron would have nothing to gain by rushing to the airport; Reid was already on his way across the country. He stepped out of the way so the elderly woman could open the door. “Come inside, if you like… I suppose Spencer wouldn’t see anything wrong with it.” Aaron followed her into the apartment. 

Reid kept an abundance of plants by the picture window. The woman placed his mail on the counter and went to the plants. The apartment was scantily and randomly decorated and pristine with cleanliness. The things in frames, his PhDs mostly, were dusted and clean with no fingerprints on the glass. Reid had a couch and an armchair, but only one end of the couch was worn. This end of the couch had an extra pair of glasses resting on the end table and propped up against the leg, a clipboard, a notebook, and a pen.  _ This is where he writes to his mother. _

Aaron browsed the room and then slipped down the hallway, the woman paying him no heed. 

The bathroom, also, sparkled and shone like a Mr. Clean commercial. In the bedroom, Aaron found Reid’s desk, compulsively organized with his textbooks stacked in order, tagged and tabbed and notes highlighted.  _ He studies even though he doesn’t need to. _ Aaron tugged out the desk drawers. The top one had pens, highlighters, pencils, sticky notes, and other office supplies. The second had unused notebooks. The last held a stack of odd papers— _ not odd papers, _ Aaron realized as he sorted through them,  _ diplomas. _

In his hand, this stack of papers, he grasped all of the diplomas Spencer Reid had ever earned, starting with high school at the very bottom. His PhDs were framed on his living room wall, but these other ones? To him, they weren’t even worth acknowledging, instead tucked shamefully into the lowest drawer of his desk. 

To Reid, a bachelors’ degree wasn’t an achievement. To him, it was a failure—a failure he hadn’t pursued the matter and gained a more impressive degree. Reid had stopped seeking doctoral degrees after he had joined the BAU, but endlessly he earned more undergraduate degrees, like a favorite hobby.  _ One expensive hobby. _ Aaron had no doubt Reid earned every scholarship known to man and had never spent a dime on his education. 

Reid kept his accomplishments buried in the lowest drawer in his room, reluctant to claim them as his own.  _ Imposter syndrome, _ Aaron mused as he tucked the diplomas back where they belonged and slid the door closed. Was that possible, even from a man like Reid? Aaron had no clue. 

He stepped back, admiring the crisp sheets on Reid’s made bed, and then he lifted his eyes to the walls. On every wall, Reid had hung broad, foamy panels almost edge to edge.  _ Sound absorbers. _ Was that to keep the sound of the raucous neighbors out? Or was it to entrap the sounds of his own nightmares when they rose to the surface so no one would worry? 

“Young man, just what do you think you’re doing?” The woman reminded him so much of his mother, he almost snapped around to face her in surprise. She stood at the mouth of the short, narrow hallway with her hands planted on her hips, gazing at him shamefully where she had caught him snooping. “Is Spencer in some kind of trouble?” 

Aaron shook his head. “No. No, ma’am, you don’t need to worry.” Striding smoothly, he left the bedroom, approaching the woman, whose stern face softened as he grew nearer. “Thank you for your time. If Spencer comes back, please let him know I stopped by.” He reached for his cell phone and vacated the apartment, his footsteps muffled by the dull carpet of the apartment hallways. “Garcia?” 

“Speak and it shall be known.” 

“I need a location on Reid’s cell phone.” 

“Reid? JJ said he’s taking a few days—”

“Yes, he is. I need a location on his phone, please.”

Her concern bloomed, palpable on the line, and he listened to the distinct sound of her fingers clicking across the keyboard. “His cell phone is turned off now but the last known location was at the Dulles Airport.” 

“Which flight did he board?” 

“He’s going to Las Vegas.” 

_ He was telling the truth. _ Reid told JJ he was going to see his mother, he told his neighbor he was going to see his mother, he went to the airport, he bought tickets to go to Las Vegas, and he boarded the flight to Las Vegas to see his mother. JJ was wrong, as far as Aaron could tell; he hadn’t relapsed.  _ Then why am I going to fly to Las Vegas anyway? _

Maybe it was that JJ said Reid had to be feeling guilty about something to have apologized to her over a little spat. Maybe it was the sound absorbers on his walls, which Aaron suspected were mounted more to consume the screams from Reid’s night terrors than the rowdiness from his neighbors. Maybe it was the dreams, those odd and uncomfortable dreams which were never uncomfortable in the moment, when Reid smelled of cinnamon and spice and curled so nicely against his body, complementing his every angle in a nude embrace. 

Perhaps Aaron was starved for affection. Perhaps it entered his dreams and made him conjure odd scenarios with one of the men nearest to him. And perhaps that was the reason he said, “Book me the next flight to Vegas, please, Garcia?” 

“But sir, isn’t he just going to visit his mother?” 

_ Maybe. Maybe not. _ Aaron had to be sure. A more patient man would have waited until the flight landed and called Reid, heard his side of the story, his fibs and his carefully constructed tales made specifically for this purpose, and he would have accepted it because Reid was a grown man and Aaron had to trust him to take care of himself. But Aaron was not so patient, and he couldn’t accept the genius known as Spencer Reid, who stored his bachelors degrees out of sight because they brought him shame, was  _ okay _ . Not without seeing it for himself. “Book the flight, please?” he repeated. “And I want to know when his cell phone turns back on.” 

Garcia hesitated, but she agreed, “Yes, sir.” The call ended. 

Aaron stepped out of the apartment building and into the late morning light, trying not to think of the ridiculousness of this whole adventure. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the encouraging comments on chapter one! I'm relishing in writing this story and so far have had a positive experience in the fandom. Please let me know if you're enjoying my work. <3 Thank you for reading!

_“You, too, my mother, read my rhymes for love of unforgotten times. And you may chance to hear once more the little feet upon the floor.”_ -Robert Louis Stevenson

…

Spencer climbed the steps to the Bennington Sanitarium, his go bag slung over his shoulder as the cab he had called drove away, leaving him alone. His leather shoes squeaked. He reached the top of the staircase and entered the building through the glass doors, approaching the woman behind the desk. “I’m here to see Diana Reid.” 

The woman smiled at him. “Of course, sir.” He slid his belongings across the desk to her, removing anything potentially dangerous. He had played this game many, many times before, in spite of the years that had spanned since he regularly visited his mother; none of this was new to him. “What’s your name?”

“Spencer Reid.” 

She checked his belongings and placed them behind the counter in a locked box. “Alright, honey, they’ll be returned to you when you check out, alright? Visiting hours are over at five.” 

Spencer checked his watch. The flight’s expediency was impressive, given the speed with which he had booked it; he’d boarded at eleven. _It’s five-thirty DC time._ “It’s two-thirty here right now?”

The woman smiled and nodded. “Yes. Just off a flight?” Spencer nodded. “Where did you come from?” 

“DC,” Spencer said offhandedly. Her eyes widened, and the incredulity of it struck him. He had, on a whim, boarded a plane and flown almost twenty five hundred miles across the country because… because why? Because he thought his mother could give him the answers he sought? _Is it that I want her answer, or that I want her reassurance?_ His mother had never been good at reassuring him—that role was always reversed, him comforting her, him providing for her—but that didn’t mean he didn’t continually seek it. “Where is she now?” 

“Diana has been in her room most of the day. Her monthly reading material just arrived, so she’ll spend a few days studying. But you can go up to visit her if you like.” 

_Right._ Spencer had tomes mailed to her monthly, things he hoped would interest her, to keep her busy. She had always said, _If you don’t use it, you lose it,_ so Spencer tried to make sure she used it the best he could. Unfortunately, he had run dry on the availability of Middle English literature; everything he had access to she had already read and studied in detail, and the remainder was both too frail to endure the United States Postal Service and far out of his price range. “Thank you,” he said absently to the woman, and he walked away from the desk toward the staircase. 

Before, he had used the elevator. Now, the confined space made his pulse quicken and sweat bead upon his forehead. 

_“Don’t—Don’t do that—” Morgan rattled the elevator with his feet, bouncing up and down, and it jiggled in response but did not resume its motion. The fluorescent lights flickered. Spencer’s brow furrowed as the confined space seemed to grow tighter, and he shuffled an inch away from Morgan, who didn’t notice his perspiration._

_Morgan glanced at the control panel to the elevator. “Why isn’t it moving?”_

_“I dunno.” Morgan raked his fingers over the control panel. “Don’t—stop it!” Morgan kept on jiggling the buttons. “Don’t…” Spencer lost the words to his next sentence. A craving hit him, a_ powerful _one, as the terror flushed through him in this tiny space in this old building in an elevator which had no certification detailing when it had last passed inspection._

_“Why? What’s the problem?”_

_“Don’t do that!” Spencer could only repeat the mantra. This would be terrifying enough if Morgan were calm about the matter, but with his well-intentioned antagonism, Spencer felt like a mime trapped in an invisible glass box as the space grew tighter and hotter with each passing moment. His chest ached._

_“Why not?”_

_Suddenly, Spencer’s words came back, and they came back rife with statistics. “Because there are six elevator-related deaths per year, not to mention ten thousand injuries that require hospitalization—just chill out.”_

_Morgan’s brow quirked, and Spencer didn’t need to hear him scoff to know he held very little regard for Spencer’s rattling of numbers. “Those sound like pretty good odds to me.” He gave his notorious half-smile. “You scared, Reid?”_

_Under ordinary circumstances, Spencer would’ve preened under his teasing—Morgan was one of the few people who made him feel like he had friends, like he_ could _bond with people in spite of his chronic weirdness inhibiting most relationships he tried to form—but the walls intimidated him, and he found it difficult to focus his vision on Morgan or on the control panel or on anything except the flashes of the dim fluorescent lights of this elevator which had an infuriating, incessant buzz, another indicator of the elevator’s age. “I’m not scared—”_

_“What if I push that?”_

_“I don’t wanna be in an elevator with you, to be honest—”_

_Morgan was enjoying this as Spencer backed away, licking his lips, sinking his sweaty hands into his pockets to try to wipe them off. “What if I push that?” Morgan antagonized. “What if I push—”_

_The elevator dropped. Spencer grabbed the side rail and pressed his whole body up against it, bracing himself._ So this is how I die. _If he had had the space of mind to think, he would have appreciated the sheer odds of this. As often as he drove or rode in a vehicle, as often as he flew in a plane, and in his line of work where firearms were discharged on the regular (and given his history of not being very skilled with the aforementioned firearms), he was going to die in a space as unlikely as an elevator._

_He should’ve known from the look of apprehension on Hotch’s face that this was not a safe bet._

_They plummeted. The cables squealed, catching the elevator, and it rocked on its hinges. Spencer squeezed the handrail, afraid to open his eyes. His chest ached. He gasped for breath, frozen there, and for the first time in many years, he said a silent prayer. Of all the things to pray for, he prayed their bodies wouldn’t be too traumatizing for whoever found them—Hotch, probably, since he was going to expect them on the fourth floor at any minute, and he would hear the elevator fall and would realize they were trapped inside, and then the case would never be solved because the bureau would have to fly home the bodies of two agents who died in an elevator, taking up a whopping thirty-three point three repeating percent of the elevator-related deaths per year—_

_“Whoa, okay,” Morgan exhaled, and his voice grounded Spencer in the moment, as well as the sensation of his sweaty hands slipping from the rail where they lost their grip on the rusted metal._

_Spencer gulped._ If I were high, I wouldn’t be so afraid right now. _He gnawed the inside of his cheek. Would it hurt when they hit the bottom? Would he feel every bone in his body crushed by inertia and gravity? If he was lucky, he would suffer a cervical dislocation first, so he would be gone by the time the other bones in his body dislocated and shattered upon impact. “Hit the—” Spencer tried to lean forward to point to the red alarm button, but he couldn’t reach it and he didn’t dare move away from the wall—the most structured part of this death box was the safest. “Hit the—yeah.”_

_Morgan hit it. Nothing happened. He pulled it back. Again, nothing happened. Spencer blinked a few times, his eyes stinging from the sweat running into them and a few restrained panicked tears. “Push it?”_

_“Push, pull, push, pull—I’m doing it, nothing’s happening!”_

_There had to be another way out. Spencer backed out of the way, gazing at the two unholy sliding fixtures before them. Statistically, the odds of successfully and safely prying open elevator doors were slim. However, his brain in survival mode skipped over those figures. “Pry the—pry the—pry the door open!” He couldn’t stop stammering and stuttering over his words, and his arms haplessly flapped at the air._

_Morgan left the wall of the elevator where he had wedged himself to pull on the elevator doors, but they refused to budge. Large white spots danced in Spencer’s vision as he gasped for breath. “It’s stuck, man.” He wrenched at them, the muscles in his back and biceps flitting through his T-shirt._

_The elevator whirred a low sound and jumped again. Morgan melted back into the corner, sticking low to the ground and bracing himself between the two walls._ That’s smart, _Spencer knew, but he couldn’t move. He clutched the rail behind him, pressed against the back wall of the elevator, head tilted back. His eyes pinched closed. Behind them, a disco of lights flashed. His whole body shivered and seized. “No, no, no, not today,” Morgan whispered, “no, not today…” His voice was distant._

_Spencer’s eyes glossed over with tears. They burned behind his eyelids. His chest heaved, unable to catch his breath._ Hotch is out there, Hotch has to have noticed we’re not there by now. If he hears us screaming, he’ll get help. _“Hotch—” Spencer intended to scream his name, but it emerged a tiny, pathetic squeak._

_Morgan, however, took the hint. He poised himself a little higher on the wall. “Hotch!” he bellowed, and his voice echoed in the tiny space. He kept pressing the buzzer._

_The elevator doors hissed and then sprung open. Morgan dove out of the crowded, hot box, pressing himself into the opposite wall. “Hallelujah.”_

_Hotch stood just outside the door frame. He frowned at Morgan, and he turned his head to look at Spencer, who blinked shakily while he pried his fingers from the rail of the elevator. “Was that the alarm?” He looked at Morgan, out of Spencer’s line of sight, and then he returned his attention to Spencer who took measured, dizzying steps forward. “Are you guys okay?”_

_Hazy eyes focused on Hotch’s form. Spencer licked his dry lips. “I’ll get back to you on that,” he breathed. As he passed by the air conditioner vent, it brushed against the perspiration which coated his whole body and chilled him to the bone._ I need a hit. _Hotch extended a hand to him and touched his shoulder, and then he led the way down the hallway, giving no other expression of sympathy or concern to them. But the touch eased Spencer’s craving somehow. He pulled his greasy, sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes and hurried after him—his savior, however strange the thought._

It was true: since that day, Spencer had avoided elevators when it was possible, especially when he was alone and had nothing to distract him from the fear. Primarily, he did it because he had struggled with claustrophobia ever since Hankel, and one bad experience was enough to bar him from entering an elevator again without good incentive. But some part of him also feared an elevator could trigger another craving, even after these years of sobriety, and Hotch wouldn’t always be there to divert his attention. 

_That was more than four years ago,_ Spencer realized. How long had he been harboring these feelings for Hotch without realizing it? When had it started without him knowing? How many flushes of adoration and discomfort and confusion had he felt, passing it off as the way an agent admired a leader, the way an inferior admired a superior, the way a friend appreciated a friend, before he reached this conclusion? _When was the first time?_ he asked himself. 

When he had spoken Hotch’s name to the eyes of Tobias Hankel—not Tobias, not really, but Raphael—when he had heard the question, _“Choose one to die,”_ and after refusing, after struggling, after asking Raphael to kill him first, he realized his escape route. The cameras were on him. The team was _watching,_ and if he gave them the right clues, they could find him. So he did. He spoke Hotch’s name and told Raphael to kill him, and then he quoted a Bible verse incorrectly; Raphael didn’t know, but he said a silent prayer Hotch would, that his improper definition of narcissism had caught his attention. 

More than anything, Spencer had prayed Hotch wouldn’t be upset with him. If anyone could see it with clarity, Hotch could, and then he proved Spencer right. It was Hotch’s voice that echoed through that dark, cold night, “ _He’s over here!”_ and Hotch’s arms which lifted his trembling, weeping body from Tobias’s still corpse upon the frigid earth. Hotch held him at arms’ length, scrutinizing him, his brow furrowed and eyes glittering with concern in the moonlight. Spencer’s voice died somewhere in his throat. _“Are you alright?”_ Into those arms, he buried himself, pressing his face into the crook of Hotch’s neck and crying. Hotch held him up, firm against his own body, as Spencer’s leg caved under him, and allowed Spencer to cling to him until he could stand free once more. 

Yes, that was when Spencer had begun to love Aaron Hotchner in a way that was more than a friend or a coworker—when Hotch’s cologne had replaced the stench of burning fish hearts and livers in his nose. Raphael told him they burned the fish to ward off the devil, but Spencer had never known anything holier than the embrace when Hotch had lifted him from the frozen earth. 

When he smelled the cologne now, no matter where he was, it reminded him he was safe. 

Of course, he knew the science. Olfactory senses were tied intensely to emotions and their development; olfaction, more than any other sense, had neuroanatomy entangled with primary emotion areas of the brain like the hippocampus and the amygdala, which led to the association between scents and feelings. 

Like now, as he stood outside his mother’s room and smelled her perfume, he felt like a little boy again. 

She left the door ajar and sat at her desk, bowed over the books he had sent her. She had pushed the desk under her window so the light bathed her materials and illuminated them without a lamp. On the corner of the desk rested the LED lamp he had purchased and sent to her two years ago—he had gotten one for himself and found it emitted none of that annoying electric sound, so he’d gotten a second one to send to her. He knocked twice on the door frame. 

“I placed my lunch order with Sean,” she said without looking up. 

Spencer’s brow quirked. “Mom, it’s me.” 

Diana turned in her chair, squinting over the rims of her glasses. She removed them. “Spencer. What are you doing here? You didn’t say you were coming in your letters.” Her glasses clinked on the desk. She stood and faced him. “It’s been long enough.” 

He gave a quirked half-smile. Shame flushed through him. “I know. I’m sorry.” He went to her and met her embrace. Hugging her was always soothing. He wished he did it more, wished he made time to visit her more, but seeing her here always filled him with guilt because he had had her locked up in here. “I—I didn’t plan it. I just missed you.” 

“I wish you missed me more often.” Spencer ducked his head in embarrassment. She patted his cheek. “You look unwell. What’s wrong?”

Eyelashes fluttering, Spencer cleared his throat. “Well, I—I just got off a six hour flight and came straight here, so I’m a little jetlagged.” She tilted her head, appraising him. She wasn’t convinced. “I, um… I need to talk to you about something, if that’s okay.” He had come here to consult the expert. She always told him to do his own research, and this was it—this was his research in the flesh. She held out her hand and welcomed him to sit on the couch in her room. It wasn’t well-worn; it was clear she didn’t use it often. He sat. She sat beside him. “How are you?”

“If you wanted to know how I am, that could’ve been a phone call,” she said, somewhat impatient with his antics. His Adam’s apple bobbed; she had caught him red handed in his attempt to postpone the inevitable, the conversation he had come here to have. “You flew across the country. It better be good.” 

Biting his lower lip, Spencer nodded. “Right. Well, um…” He chewed the inside of his cheek. He hadn’t planned how he was going to have this conversation; the plane had been too loud, too many electronic whines and whirs for him to focus, so he had tried his best to listen to Beethoven and relax. “You know my friend, Emily?” 

“The one who faked her own death and came back engaged to your best friend?” The corners around Spencer’s mouth creased with affection at his mother’s blunt affect. Flat affect was a symptom of schizophrenia, he knew, but he had never known her without it, and seeing it was familiar. “I may recall her. What’s she done now? Involved with another international criminal?”

Spencer raised his eyebrows. _Maybe I should tell her less._ He couldn’t help it; he didn’t have friends outside the team, and he had to have someone to talk to. “No, no, she hasn’t done anything.” He licked his lips. “I’ve been thinking a lot about her recently. About how she—she wasn’t true to herself when she was younger, and she paid for it last year, when it caught up with her.” Diana didn’t interrupt; she listened intently. “She was honest with all of us from the start, you know, she was out by then, but she compromised herself to have access to information she needed to protect her country when she worked for Interpol. And even though it was so long ago, it—it hurt her, and it hurt a lot of people she cares about.” 

“You never told me Emily was a lesbian before.”

Shrugging, Spencer pressed his lips into a tight line. “I guess I didn’t think it mattered.” He wasn’t exactly in a position to judge anyone’s romantic relationships. 

She gazed at him steadily. “What’s this about, Spencer?” 

Fidgeting with his tie, Spencer gazed down at the tile floor. He licked his lips. His mouth was dry. “Mom, I…” Did he want to open these floodgates? He didn’t know how she was going to respond. Maybe he wasn’t ready to hear her words, her rejection. But he hadn’t come all this way to change his mind. “Am I gay?” 

His eyelashes fluttered. He couldn’t make eye contact with her. The corners of his eyes stung and burned with tears. He wanted to evaluate her expression, but he was afraid of what he would see there. 

A soft hand caressed his cheek, and she lifted his head, drawing him to face her. She wore a tiny, grim smile. “I don’t think this is how this conversation is supposed to go.”

Blinking a few times, Spencer preemptively shed his tears. “It—It isn’t?” he asked, his astonishment bleeding into his voice. “What do you mean?” 

“This is the part where you tell me you _are_ gay, and I tell you I already knew. That is according to several hundred coming of age fictional novels and films about gay people I’ve absorbed since I knew about you.” Spencer ogled at her. His glasses fogged up from his hot tears, but he couldn’t keep crying; the information kept pelting his brain and ricocheting off of it as he struggled with which pieces to grab and which ones to dispose of. 

“You hate fiction.” 

This wasn’t the fact he intended to repeat, but it was the one that stuck with him. Diana shrugged. “I started with nonfiction. But I got bored eventually. Do you see much else for me to do in my time?” 

Wiping his hands off on his pants, Spencer rocked himself on the sofa, tracing the hems of the pockets of his pants. “You did that for me?” She nodded. “When—When did you know?” 

“A mother knows. I’ve told you before.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Her face quirked. “Would you have liked me to tell you?” Spencer considered this question. She was right; it wasn’t her place to tell him who he was. “Truthfully, I thought you would’ve known by now. You spend a lot of time learning. Haven’t you learned about yourself yet?” 

A quiet chuckle hummed from Spencer’s nose. “Honestly… no.” He was afraid. He was afraid to learn about himself, afraid of the consequences, afraid of what he would discover. What could he find out about himself in his own mind? That was frightening. He preferred learning about other people. Through an unbiased lens, he could analyze the behavior of almost anyone, but he didn’t know how to turn that upon himself, and if someone did, he worried about what they would have to say about him. He could’ve asked any one of his teammates to profile him. But he didn’t want to know what they would discover, what they thought. “I learn about as many things as I can, you know, for my work, and I think sometimes I—maybe I do it just so I don’t have to think about myself.” 

She smiled, easing a hand down his back, rubbing in soothing circles. “I may not know many things, but I know you.” 

“You know so much—you made me fall in love with learning.” Everything Spencer had known until he was nine or ten, he had learned from his mother. She had provided him material to expand his knowledge and grow when the public education system failed him. “I still read Proust when I want to feel close to you.” 

“Proust was a homosexual, you know.” 

_Homosexual._ She didn’t say it with venom; it was neutral, just a descriptor, and the word didn’t sting the way Spencer expected it to. It wasn’t like the slurs they had hurled at him in school when they beat him, stripped him, and left him vulnerable to the elements. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I know.” She gave him the label with love, and that was all the difference. He nibbled on his lower lip. “Are you sure?” 

Diana kept her hand on his back. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life, except my love for you.” Her touch was one of the few that didn’t leave him reeling with overwhelming sensory stimulus; it was too familiar for that. “You decided to come today for a reason.” He averted his eyes. “Would I be too optimistic to venture that you’ve finally initiated a relationship with your boss?” 

Sputtering, Spencer’s mouth twitched, all the muscles in his face seizing at the flat statement. “I—You—How did you—”

“Spencer, you joined the BAU eight years ago, and you’ve written me a letter every day since that time. I have enough of your letters to compile an epistolary novel of your journeys. You’ve been focused on Hotch’s attention for years. I always thought you were aware.” Spencer’s brows knitted together while he thought, trying to conjure up some examples of times he had mentioned Hotch in his letters. “You shouldn’t try to recall them word for word. You’re quite the verbose writer, you know.” She was right; when no one was around to stop him from rambling incessantly on statistics, he _didn’t_ stop, and often she received his letters unedited with nothing hindering him from digressing further and further from the topic at hand until he was discussing some strange theoretical science, and he would loop it back with, _All my love, Spencer,_ as if that somehow forgave the fact he’d just composed something that was part letter, part diary, and part academic dissertation and mailed it to her. 

“Is it really that obvious?” he asked her in a whisper. She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you know… does _he_ know? Or the rest of the team?” Spencer had planned on coming out to the team when he came home—after all, they were the closest thing he had to a family or friends, so they would deserve to know. But he wasn’t going to tell anyone how he felt about Hotch. 

That tiny smile reappeared on her lips. “No. Nobody knows you like I do, Spencer.” She ruffled his hair. “So tell me about him.”

Spencer’s eyes narrowed. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You already know everything I know about him… I tell you everything that happens to us at work.” He did tell her _everything,_ even when it was a security breach (and he feared the day someone found out about that), even when it worried her (and it often did worry her; he had received _quite_ the phone call after he wrote about the anthrax and then again when he wrote about his knee). 

“You write in concrete facts. You don’t tell me about your emotions, really. You don’t tell me how he makes you feel.” 

Considering this, Spencer tilted his head. She was right; he usually conveyed events, not feelings. There were exceptions—the letter revealing Emily’s death had streaked ink from his tears—but he didn’t typically delve into what he felt. “How he makes me feel?” he repeated, and she gave him an encouraging nod. Spencer steepled his fingers as he thought, rocking back and forth on the sofa. “Do you remember when we used to read Chaucer together when I was little?”

“I wouldn’t raise my son on any modern storybooks when the originals got it best.” 

Spencer chuckled. “Right.” He wiped at his mouth with his sleeve, lips chapped as he spoke. “You always said that—that the continental accentual-syllabic meter comforted you. You said it was superior to the other forms of iambic pentameter because it was freer, but you still appreciated the contributions Chaucer made to iambic pentameter works, even when other people said that Chaucer’s verses were rough and unrecognizable.”

She blinked a few times. “His work requires intimate knowledge of Middle English detailing the pronunciation of final E’s on his words. Someone less familiar with the language wouldn’t recognize that and would let their ignorance cloud their judgment.” She spurred him on. 

“And you also said that rhyme royal was your favorite form of rhyme, so every night when we would pick out a story to read together, you said it was like coming home, or like seeing an old friend. The rhyme and the meter were sensory bliss, and no other poet could really come close to it when you needed to feel safe, when things in your head were really scary.” She held out an open-palmed hand, inviting him to continue. Spencer’s eyes darted down to the floor, his shoes rubbing in circular motions upon it so the friction gave him some stimulus. “Hotch is my _Canterbury Tales_. He—He makes me feel safe, even when I probably shouldn’t, like when we were interviewing Chester Hardwick.”

“The man who intended to kill you both?” 

Spencer agreed. “Yeah. I mean, I was scared, but not as much as I should’ve been.” He fidgeted with his sleeves. He’d been _terrified_ in that moment, when Hardwick had stared him down, held up that picture of the bloody, disemboweled girl and purred, “ _It took me less than five minutes to do this._ ” Hotch had gotten his attention, had stripped off his coat and tie, but his gaze wasn’t on Hardwick—not as much as it should’ve been—but rather continually darted back to Spencer who eased farther and farther away from the aggressive males. Hotch was going to fight to protect them without hesitation and without a word of dissuasion. “When he looked at me, I felt safe enough to talk Hardwick down. If it had been Morgan, I—I don’t think I would’ve been confident enough to speak, but Hotch was there, and I was comfortable enough to run my mouth until the guards came.” 

“You’re never just running your mouth.” 

Raising his eyebrows, he shrugged. “Some people might disagree with you.” He was quite used to being silenced.

“Is he one of those?” 

Spencer regarded the concept in his mind. “I… I don’t know.” Hotch was never as rude to him about his rambling as Morgan could be at times (though he knew it was always well-intentioned and never took it personally). And he was the first to ask for Spencer’s thoughts on any matter, not just in cases but outside of them as well; Spencer _still,_ four years after he proposed it and two years after Haley died, wondered what on earth had gone through Hotch’s mind to ask for his opinion on their divorce on the drive back from Connecticut. “He values my thoughts, but I don’t know how much.” 

She smoothed her hand down his back. “You don’t think he feels the same for you?” 

Resisting the urge to scoff, Spencer shook his head. “No—I mean, I know he doesn’t. How could he?” He had no indication Hotch was anything other than a heterosexual alpha male who could possibly be downright _offended_ that another man found him attractive. “He—He’s still not over Haley. None of us are.” He pulled on his sleeves again. “Sometimes I hear her die in my dreams.” Spencer heard and saw a lot of things in his dreams—Hankel and his cluster, Ryan Phillips, Phillip Dowd, Cyrus and his cult, Hardwick too. 

She squeezed his knee. “So you aren’t planning on telling him?”

“When I’m sure, I’ll—I’ll tell the team about who I am. But not how I feel about him.” 

“You’re still not sure?” 

He cast his gaze down. “There’s another person I need to talk to first, I think.” 

Diana tilted her head. She let the matter slide, not pressing him any further. “You’re wearing your glasses again. You were in contacts, last I saw you.” 

“The contacts were—were making the headaches worse. They’ve been better since I started wearing glasses again.” He was surprised when his optometrist had suggested it when he picked up his next case of contacts, but he had decided to try it—after all, nothing else had given him any relief. The headaches were still excruciating, but with the glasses and with the sound absorbers in his room now, he could make it through the night. 

“Glasses suit you more, anyway. Shows the world how smart you are.”

He gave an abashed grin. “You know there’s no proven correlation between vision loss and intelligence. Of course, _perceived_ intelligence is its own beast. For example, someone wearing glasses is more likely to be hired during an interview than someone without. Furthermore, politicians with glasses are more likely to be elected into office, especially by liberals, who tend to value that perceived intelligence over perceived dominance, unlike conservatives who prefer a leader who’s in charge and may subconsciously see glasses as a sign of weakness. And then we must take into consideration the ramifications of poverty, also, since vision is not covered under many insurance plans and is expensive to upkeep. People in poverty are less likely to have access to vision care and also are less likely to have access to a quality education, and students who can’t see at school are less likely to succeed, which may contribute to the belief that glasses wearers are more intelligent, when in fact there are lots of additional factors to take into account.”

She didn’t interrupt him, and he didn’t realize his blathering until he finished, but before he could apologize, she patted his thigh. “There you go, proving the glasses right.” Spencer ducked his head sheepishly. “I do have a question for you. It seems fair, since you came all this way to ask me something.” Spencer raised his eyebrows, eager to hear what she had to say. “You’ve a degree in almost every subject under the sun. But still no literature. Why?”

This gave him pause. She was right; he had not gotten even the most rudimentary diploma in English or literature. It wasn’t because of lack of interest or opportunity; after all, he was currently completing a degree in foresight, literally the practice of using statistical trends in the past to make predictions for the future. He had exhausted his list of more accessible majors and now delved into the more obscure ones: astrobiology, nautical archeology, psychometrics, to name a few. (He found it helped to have as much pointless, useless knowledge in his head as possible, since inevitably the most random facts ended up helping them in cases.) By now, he probably should’ve gotten at least one diploma for literature, but he hadn’t. “I guess because I want to make sure I always have something else to learn from you. I don’t want anyone to take that away from me.” The day that Spencer out-learned his mother frightened him, and Hotch wasn’t here to make him feel safe. 

She smiled a small smile. “Let me read to you. I’ve got Proust. Gay men have always been the most articulate,” she teased, and he couldn’t help but break out into a larger grin. She pulled his head down into her lap, and he rested his long legs up on the opposite arm of the couch. Her fingers combed through his hair. 

As her fingernails scraped his scalp, Spencer closed his eyes. Her voice carried him away from the scene, delving into the translated works. Like this, he could forget all of the horror and the fear of growing up not knowing how to care for her. He could relish in the moment. So he did. 

…

“This plane is on fire.” Aaron lifted his head at the summoning where his mind had wandered toward all thoughts of Reid. He turned to the woman beside him in the window seat. “Look.” She nodded out the glass. There, across the wing, smoke spread in great, dark clouds, and beyond those clouds, embers smoldered and dropped from the engine turbines. “Do you think we’re going to die?” 

_I hope not._ “I don’t know.” He didn’t know how they would explain this to Jessica and Jack if he died in a burning plane crash on his way to Las Vegas in some attempt to round up a rogue doctor and bring him home. And whatever awaited him on the other side, he knew Haley would absolutely kick his ass for dying in such a stupid way and leaving their son an orphan. 

The pilot came over the intercom. “Everyone, please fasten your seatbelts. We’re going to make an emergency landing in Lake Havasu City. Please remain calm.” Aaron carefully fastened his seatbelt. If this was how he died, he was going to _haunt_ Reid. His eyes darted around the plane, evaluating the expressions of the passengers, all of them sober and somber. One woman cried softly. He looked to the woman beside him, whose glittering eyes didn’t leave the soot and ash pouring from the engine of the plane. 

“Where are you going?” he asked her, hoping to distract her from the terror. 

She looked back at him. “I was going to Las Vegas… but it seems I’m going to Lake Havasu City.” She cracked a smile, though her eyes were glossy with tears. “I’m supposed to be at my daughter’s wedding tomorrow night. If this is how I die, it will be very inconvenient for my family.” She wiped away a tear from her eye. “What about you?”

“I’m trying to catch up with a friend. It doesn’t seem like I’m having very much luck today, though.” Aaron checked his watch. He had already been two and a half hours behind Reid. Now he had to rent a car and drive to Las Vegas—by the time he got there, it would be dark, Bennington would be closed to the public, and he would be struggling to find a hotel room. With each passing moment, this was looking more and more like a terrible idea… Yet he didn’t have it in his heart to turn back. 

Something was wrong with Reid. He just had to figure out _what_ , exactly. He wasn’t any closer to reaching a conclusion on that than he had been when he left, not for lack of wracking his mind for any clues. Reid decided at random one morning he needed to apologize to JJ and fly across the country to see his mother. JJ said he sounded lost, and he probably felt guilty about something else to have apologized over something so trivial. But what could possibly bring him such immense guilt? 

_Would Reid hurt himself?_ Aaron considered. He didn’t think so… but he would feel better when he caught up to him and knew for sure.

“I hope he has the good sense to wait for you, since the plane caught fire and everything.”

“He doesn’t know I’m coming. I was planning on surprising him.” 

“Oh. That’s unfortunate.” _It really is._ “Hopefully you’ll catch up to him. And now you’ll always have this story, that you were on a burning plane just trying to make his day better.” 

Aaron smiled grimly. Would he tell Reid about the plane fire? He would have to. He would have to tell Garcia when they landed, and Garcia would tell the rest of the team, so he would have to tell Reid to keep him from finding out through the grapevine. _What will he think?_ He wondered if Reid would hug him. Neither he nor Reid were huggers—touch had never been his love language, nor was it Reid’s from what he could tell. 

He still remembered the way Reid had hugged him that night in the Hankels’ cemetery. His flashlight crossed the crouched body, wary eyes glittering up at the cold soulless sky above, and Aaron had called out to the rest of the rescue team, moving closer to Reid where he hovered on the frigid ground, lips blue and trembling. He bowed down and lifted him up, and Reid melted into him like candle wax curling beneath a flame, crying into his neck. Aaron had held him then as long as he had needed it. _What does he need now?_ He doubted it was as simple as an embrace. 

But if it was, Aaron would provide it again and again. 

_Am I being honest with myself?_ Was this just about attraction, some raw animal thing, or friendship and the responsibility he felt to Reid as both his friend and his leader? Or was it something deeper? Aaron had once lambasted Elle for refusing to be honest with herself about her intentions. Was he falling into the same trap now, discounting his own feelings for Reid to try to avoid facing them?

He massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. Was this madness? Of course it was madness. He was having dreams about being intimate with a man ten years his junior, his subordinate at work, and those dreams were beginning to enter his life. _Reid would say it’s the opposite._ Reid would say the dreams were an expression of the subconscious desire which he had developed during his waking hours. 

He couldn’t pursue it. It would undoubtedly make Reid uncomfortable. Reid was too skittish and fickle to be presented with such a serious matter. The whole time Aaron had known him, he had had all of two romantic prospects—JJ and Lila Archer. He had only gone on the date with JJ because Gideon told him to and Reid did everything Gideon asked of him; it never recurred. And Aaron had seen the pictures of Lila Archer kissing him. He had endured it, not enjoyed it. Aaron couldn’t have Reid thinking of him differently or feeling unsafe around him. His team needed Reid’s head to operate soundly, and Aaron would make any number of sacrifices to ensure that happened. 

The plane jostled and careened over the city. Aaron grasped the arm rests tightly. His short fingernails dug into the leather. Below, on the runway, firetrucks waited. Aaron’s ears popped. He swallowed hard. 

The plane vibrated. The woman beside him whimpered. The wheels struck the earth, and the plane tipped, but then it righted itself. People began to stand. “Everyone, please be seated—no one can disembark the plane until the fire is under control,” cautioned the flight attendant. 

“Shouldn’t we be getting away from the fire?” asked a somewhat agitated man, but the flight attendant worked to appease him. The firetrucks pulled around and began to spray the burning wing of the aircraft with their hoses. 

The woman gulped. “Maybe today isn’t the end of the line.” 

“Maybe not,” he answered. 

As he left the airport with his go bag over his shoulder, Aaron called Garcia. “Hey, Garcia, any news on Reid for me?”

“Yes! His phone pinged first at the Las Vegas airport and then at Bennington. He turned it off there, I assume because that’s policy, and he hasn’t turned it back on—and in all honesty, if he thinks we might track him, he probably won’t unless he needs something.” Aaron wished she wasn’t right, but she was. “But, uh, sir? _Your_ phone is pinging somewhere in western Arizona.” 

Aaron sighed. “Yeah. The plane caught fire and they had to make an emergency landing.” 

“The plane _caught fire?_ ” Garcia repeated. “Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine—can you find me the nearest car rental location? I’m sure there are tons around here, but I don’t know which direction to head.” 

“Sure thing, boss man. Are you going to drive the rest of the way?”

“It’s only two and a half hours. It’s not worth boarding another flight. With my luck, the next plane will go up like the Challenger.” That wasn’t the way Aaron wanted to die. 

“Well, I know you don't think so right now, but it’s your lucky day. There’s a rental right across the street from you.” 

“Thanks, Garcia.”

“You’re very welcome, sir.”

The call ended. Aaron looked at the screen of his phone. He had several notifications, all from Jessica—two missed calls and three texts. 

Jess: _Do you have a case? You’re late to pick up Jack._

Jess: _Jack misses you and I’m worried._

Jess: _Call me when you get this._

Aaron raised his eyebrows. Resigning himself to his fate, he hit _send call_ and began to cross the street, praying for forgiveness from Haley and from whatever god there was, and praying for mercy from Jessica. _Reid, you better be worth it._


	3. Chapter 3

“But if the years have taught me anything, it is this: You can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.” -Junot Diaz

…

The screens illuminated the office of Penelope Garcia, as usual, while she played offline Solitaire on her phone. The landline telephone rang. She slammed the button to answer. “I’ve been a bad girl. I should be punished,” she purred, expecting Derek on the other end of the line. The wind blew in the background. She glanced up from her phone and looked up at the caller ID, which flashed,  _ S. Reid. _

“Uh, hey, it’s Reid.” 

“Boy Genius, what are you doing? Everybody’s worried about you. Where are you?” Penelope asked the question, but it was only to stall; she typed hastily on her computers to triangulate his location from his cell phone. Hotch had made it to Vegas last night. She could pass along the information so he could catch up to Reid—maybe it would upset Reid, but she cared more about his safety than his feelings. 

“I told JJ, I’m taking a few days. I visited my mom.” Sure enough, the cell phone pinged back on the GPS a few blocks from Bennington at a hotel. “Listen, um, I—I have a big favor to ask you. I know you said you wouldn’t before, but it’s been years now, and it’s—it’s a personal matter.” 

Penelope frowned at the pressing.  _ A personal matter? _ “What’s up? I’ll see what I can do.” 

Reid cleared his throat in the background. “I need to find Gideon.” 

Biting the tip of her tongue, Penelope shifted in her seat. “When Gideon resigned, he  _ explicitly _ asked us all not to try to track him down—”

“I know, I know. And that was the right decision, then, but… There’s just something I really need to talk to him about.” 

“Something like what?” Reid was silent on the other end of the line. Penelope spun a lock of blonde hair around her finger, twirling with it as she listened to his breathing. “What’s keeping you so quiet, Boy Wonder? Is there something you’re not telling us?” 

He sighed. “I’m not ready to tell you yet. I need to talk to Gideon first. It’s not—It’s not something I want to say over the phone, anyways. I  _ promise _ I’ll tell everyone when I come back.” 

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Penelope nodded. “Right.” She couldn’t rush him or pressure him into saying what he didn’t want to say. If he wanted to say it in person, he had the right to do that, though the insatiable curiosity  _ burned  _ inside of her, and she wondered if there was any clue in the grand wonders of the internet universe that could lead her to the answer. “I’ll work on getting you a location on Gideon. But if anyone asks, this didn’t happen.” 

“I know. Listen, Garcia—I know everyone is worried. Will you please tell them not to be?”

“I’ll do my best.” 

“And don’t let any of them come after me. I’m  _ fine. _ ” Penelope’s eyes widened and she pursed her lips at the request. She struggled to find the words. Hotch hadn’t explicitly told her  _ not _ to let Reid know he was being followed, but she didn’t want to upset Reid by telling him about Hotch’s cross country pursuit which had involved a burning plane and a long drive in a dustbuster with old tires in desperate need of an oil change. “They’re already coming, aren’t they?” 

Something inside of Penelope—she didn’t know what—compelled her to lie. “No, no, they wanted to, but, uh, JJ talked them out of it. She said she was pretty sure you were fine, and if we didn’t hear from you in a few days, then we should worry.”  _ I just lied to a profiler. _ Penelope’s heart rate increased. She never lied to anyone on the team—she never even attempted it, just assuming any of them could see through her in a heartbeat. 

“Good.” Reid didn’t question her. Relief eased the tension in her shoulders. “Please don’t say anything to anyone about Gideon.” 

“You know I won’t.” 

Reid paused, and Penelope almost expected him to end the call, but then he cut into her thoughts again. “Hey, um… I’ve been thinking. You know that action figure I have? The one from Comic Con?” 

“The Ninth Doctor 2008 Comic Con exclusive action figure signed by Christopher Eccleston on the unopened packaging making it worth hundreds of dollars with a high rate of appreciation so that it’s completely irreplaceable?”

Reid snorted a short laugh through his nose, a wry thing. “Yeah—Yeah that one. I know it means a lot to you. I want you to have it.” 

Penelope’s brow quirked. “Reid, the last time I asked you for that action figure, you told me you would leave it to me in your will.” 

“I know, but—I owe you. I’ll give it to you when I get back.” 

Something left the pit of Penelope’s gut unsettled. This wasn’t right. Why would Reid suddenly be giving gifts? She could think of one reason, but it terrified her to consider, so she tried to ignore the notion. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He said he was coming back. She had to trust him on that. She had to trust him when he said he was going to come back. 

“Honestly… I think I’m better than I have been in a long time.” He sounded relieved, but this only caused Penelope’s worry to increase. “Call me if you find anything on Gideon?”

Penelope typed into her computer. “I’m forwarding his address to your phone now. How do you feel about flying to Omaha?”

“He’s in Nebraska?” 

“Looks like it, chico. From the looks of it, our old pal Gideon is living somewhere that the people from the boonies call the sticks… and I think he has a dog! Oh, that’ll be fun for you. You’ll find out if the Reid effect is still in function, hm?”

Bemusement trickled into his voice. “Yeah, I guess I will.” 

“Catch you later, Boy Wonder?” 

“Garcia?” 

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for always being there for me.”

“Anytime, cowboy.” 

Reid did end the call this time, and as soon as Penelope heard the dial tone, she desperately punched Hotch’s number into her landline. It didn’t ring. “This is Aaron Hotchner; leave a message.” 

_ Why did he turn his phone off?  _ Penelope resisted the urge to curse. “Sir, it’s Garcia. I’ve heard from Reid. Please call me when you get this.” She searched coordinates for Hotch’s phone on the computer, and it flashed on the screen—Bennington Sanitarium. “Of course,” she breathed. He had gone to talk to Diana to try to find Reid. He would be unreachable as long as he was there; visitors weren’t allowed to keep their belongings for the safety of the patients. 

Knuckles drummed on the door frame of her office. Her chair spun around. “How’s it going, babygirl?” 

“Oh, it’s going, alright.” Penelope smiled back at Morgan. 

“You hear anything from Hotch or Reid?”

“Hotch is at Bennington. He’s still a couple hours behind Reid.” Reid had asked her not to say anything about Gideon, so she wouldn’t—not to Morgan, anyway. When Hotch called her back, then she would spill. “I’m never going to feel safe on an airplane again,” she confessed. 

Morgan chuckled. “Relax, babygirl.” He touched her shoulders, and she felt the tension ease from her body, a reprieve from the anxiety lurking within her. 

…

Leaving behind his belongings at the front desk, Aaron followed the nurse into the elevator up to the fourth floor of the building. “Right this way, sir.” The nurse gestured with an open hand to the doorway, where the door was ajar. Aaron thanked his escort and stood there in the door frame of the room. 

Diana had her back to him, leaning over her desk. She took notes beside an open book marked with tabs. She sat up straight. Her left hand slid her glasses from her face and folded them, placing them on the table top, and she turned to glance over her shoulder. “Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there and stare at me all day?” 

Aaron raised his eyebrows and entered the room in a few long strides. “Dr. Reid, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner.” 

“I know who you are, agent. We’ve met before.” She pushed back from her desk and stood, facing him directly. “Spencer’s not here, if you’re looking for him.” 

“Do you mind if we talk?” 

“Do I have a choice?”

Usually, the answer to this question was  _ no, _ but Aaron wasn’t working a case—he was only looking for Reid. “Actually… yes.” She tilted her head at his words. “I’m not investigating a case, so I can’t require anything from you. You’re not obliged to share anything with me if you don’t want to. I’m only here to try to find Spencer and make sure he’s okay.” Aaron  _ hoped _ she would agree to discuss with him, but he also knew Reid was intensely private about his life, and he guessed his mother would be eager to protect that. 

Diana extended an arm, welcoming him to sit. “Do you suspect that Spencer is in some kind of trouble?”

At her invitation, Aaron sat on the couch, carefully angling his body toward her so he could read her facial expressions as she spoke. “No, I don’t. Is he?” 

She tilted her head thoughtfully, steepling her fingers. “Then what caused you to fly across the entire country in pursuit of him, if you don’t think he’s in danger and have no active case causing you to have concern for his well being?”

He held her gaze, unblinking. “He left suddenly under somewhat odd circumstances, and my team was concerned about his mental well being.” 

“Why send you?” 

“Pardon?” 

As much as he appraised her, she was appraising him right back. She looked at him with a certain light, like a professor regarding a student—in fact, it struck him as the same way Gideon had once looked at Spencer. Spencer thrived under such a look, eager to surpass expectations of authority figures, but to Aaron, it made him feel challenged, and he hardened against it. “I know a lot about you and your team, Agent Hotchner. Spencer doesn’t have a litany of friends, so he shares things with me in his letters.” Her hair fell in the odd light of the room, unkempt and unbrushed, and with the hospital clothes hanging from her body, he would have suspected her deranged at first glance, but her eyes were lucid and clear. “If I were a member of your team, and I were concerned enough to send someone after my son… I would send Agent Rossi or Agent Morgan.”

“Why so?” 

Part of Aaron predicted her answer, but part of him was still surprised. “It makes the most sense to me that, if an agent desires to spend their personal time flying around the country after a boy genius on a road to self discovery, that agent should be one with no family. Not a recently widowed single father.”

It was a flat description—Diana had a blunt affect—but she didn’t intend it as an insult. Still, it made Aaron feel selfish. He always felt selfish. Haley had accused him of it once, before she filed for divorce, and the words had haunted him then and still did now, made him wonder if she was disappointed in him, in his performance as a husband and as a father. Would she be unhappy with the way he loved Jack? He loved Jack enough to try to make this world a safer place for him to live and thrive. He loved Jack enough to teach him that monsters were real, but monster hunters were everywhere and they were getting better every day. He loved Jack so very much, but no one had ever shown him this love as a child, and without Haley to guide him, he was flying blind by the seat of his pants. 

_ Reid recommended some research reports. _ Aaron remembered it distinctly, one night a few weeks ago as he burned the midnight oil over his desk. 

_ The knock at his office door surprised him. Aaron glanced at the clock, which read eleven thirty. He wondered who else would still be in the building at this hour. Sitting back, he called, “Come in,” and Reid entered the room with several files under his arm and two cups of coffee in his hands. “Reid. What are you still doing here?”  _

_ Reid licked his lips. “I lost a bet with Morgan and have to do the entire team’s case files for a month.”  _

_ Aaron squinted up at him. “Do I want to know what kind of bet?”  _

_ “He said I couldn’t make a whole lesson of spinning without falling off. I said I could. I was wrong.” _

_ “Isn’t spinning riding a stationary bike?”  _

_ “We all have our vices.” Aaron cracked a smile at Reid’s gentle joke, shaking his head at the well-intentioned probe. Reid put one cup of coffee on his desk beside him. “I saw your light was still on and thought I would offer to help you mow these down.” He gestured vaguely to the stack of papers in front of Aaron.  _

_ Shaking his head, Aaron looked back down to the stack, which somehow seemed to have grown in the last hour instead of shrunk. “No, Reid, you need your rest. Go home. Get some sleep.” He knew Reid didn’t sleep the way he should—and he almost certainly wouldn’t tonight, regardless, as he sipped on that well-creamed cup of coffee in his hand.  _

_ Reid examined him in the dim light. “You know, you’re always telling us we need to take care of ourselves and make time to decompress, but… you don’t seem to be very good at that, yourself.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he delivered the direct criticism, and he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt for his nervousness. “How often do you sleep?” _

_ Aaron deflected the question. “I sleep better when the work is done. Jack’s at a sleepover this weekend, so I need to get this done tonight.” He wouldn’t lose any of his quality time with Jack for some stupid paperwork, no matter how tired he was. _

_ Fidgeting even more, Reid seemed to rock in the air—not in the hyper, coffee-induced way, but in the way he did when he was nervous and overstimulated by the environment. Aaron realized the sound of the fan inside his computer whirring was probably bothering him. “So either one of two things can happen here.” _

_ Aaron lifted his gaze back to Reid. Reid? Being assertive? Giving him options? This was new. “What’s that?”  _

_ “So in one scenario, I can sit down and help you with these files and we can be done in half the time. Or in the other scenario, I can exercise one of my vices and, uh, trip clumsily over your desk, and spill this coffee conveniently all over these many, many papers you have to fill out, and since the printers all turn off at midnight, there will be no way for you to get more copies until Monday, so you’ll have no choice but to go home and get some of that well-prescribed rest.”  _

_ “In which scenario do you no longer have a job?”  _

_ “You’d fire me for tripping? The team would riot. Everyone knows I have two left feet. I’m here  _ right now  _ because I fell off of a stationary bike, and there were  _ many _ witnesses. Would they really take your word over mine?”  _

_ Aaron couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “You’re a diabolical little man.” He split the stack of files in half, passing some to Reid, and Reid sat down across from him, crossing his legs. “How did Morgan rope you into spinning?”  _

_ “He’s been trying to convince me to take up a physical activity to get more fit. He thinks I’d lose miserably in hand-to-hand.” _

_ “Is he wrong?” _

_ Reid frowned, hastily flicking through the paperwork more quickly than Aaron could have dreamed. “Not necessarily, but I’m pretty good at running my mouth to stay out of hand-to-hand situations, at least until somebody with muscles shows up to back me up.” Aaron distinctly remembered Chester Hardwick, that whole scenario in which Reid had almost undoubtedly saved him from cracking his knuckles and some serious bruises, if not more severe injuries. He hummed in response. Reid was right; he didn’t need to be good in hand-to-hand as long as he could deescalate and stall for backup effectively. “You know, all the times I ever got bullied in school, I was never able to talk them out of it. Put a psycho killer in front of me with a hostage and a couple loaded weapons—there’s a pretty good chance I can get everybody out of that situation unharmed. But I never figured out how to convince a couple of mean kids not to beat me unconscious and dump me in a garbage bin. What’s up with that?”  _

_ Aaron raised his eyebrows. “I dunno.” He browsed his files much more slowly than Reid did; he almost felt inept in comparison, but at the speed with which Reid was finishing the files, he hoped they could both go home soon. “Jack’s been trying to barter his way out of being bullied by setting up playdates and befriending them.” _

_ “Oh, I tried that. It doesn’t work.” Reid sipped from his coffee. “I also offered to tutor them. And do their homework for them. And take their tests for them. Nothing worked. Until I got to college, then people would do almost anything for me to tutor them.”  _

_ “When you’re paying for your education out of pocket, your priorities change,” Aaron observed quietly. He watched as Reid worked, the feminine way he crossed his legs and held the files in his lap. “Is there anything you wish your parents would have done differently to protect you?”  _

_ Pursing his lips, Reid considered. And then he began to speak. “Well, right now, Jack is in between stages in Erikson’s theories of development.” It occurred to Aaron that Reid rejected the question outright—he immediately projected his experiences onto Jack, talking about him instead. “He’s leaving the initiative versus guilt stage and heading into the industry versus inferiority stage, so in theory, by this time in his development, he should be learning more about how to be a team player, how to direct play both by himself and with others, and how to be a leader when the situation calls for it, which is the ego quality known as  _ purpose, _ and he also should be starting to learn how to be proud of his accomplishments in school and will require more support and reassurance from adults in his life of his achievements. If he does that successfully, then he’ll have  _ competence,  _ and he’ll be able to move on to the next stage of development and develop his own identity as a pre-teen and adolescent.” Reid paused to lick his lips, and then he continued, “He’s also, according to Freud, entering the latency stage of his development, where his focus is outside of himself as he develops morals and learns how to adopt values and how to behave in society as a whole. All in all, this points to him learning how to handle crises on his own without guidance while using a growing moral compass. But then, he’s still in the preoperational stage according to Piaget, where symbols mean more to the representation of concrete ideas than logic and reasoning, but not every child will grow at the same rate; those are really just guidelines to direct parents and psychologists over a growing mind.” _

_ Reid was neither a parent nor a psychologist, but he kept talking, and Aaron kept listening. “The concrete operational stage in Piaget’s theory is the point at which the child develops logic and recognizes conservation principles, say, when the same amount of water is in a larger glass versus a smaller glass, the child can recognize the amount of water is the same regardless of the size of the glass. Now, let’s take into the account the developmental stage where Jack is at now and the long-term ramifications bullying can have on the mind. Bullying is a unique social phenomenon in that it spans almost all cultures at all times and really occurs in all age groups, too, though we tend to focus most on prevention during childhood years because of the consequences it can have on the developing brain. _

_ “Most psychologists have, up until this point, studied bullying through a social-ecological model, focusing on the victim and not on the perpetrator—I mean, after all, that seems the best course of action when you have an innocent who is being traumatized and a bully. But modern research is suggesting we should add onto that, we should view bullying through a lens of social-ecological diathesis-stress model—that is to say, we should not only worry about the victim and their trauma, but also on the bully, because a child doesn’t act out in such a way without cause. Bullying is a stressful life event for both parties, which serves as a catalyst for a diathesis-stress connection between bullying and victimization. Through this lens, almost all of our anti-bullying efforts since the eighties have been ineffective because they’ve missed a  _ huge  _ chunk of the psychology behind childhood bullies—they just don’t take in the enormity of human experience and simplify it down too much, probably because of the belief that children can’t actually understand why they’re doing what they’re doing, or because adults think logic can’t necessarily drive their actions or won’t take the time to study their behavior. Adults fail to grasp the complexities of the child’s mind, and children have been suffering for it.”  _

_ Reid drank from his coffee. The cup was almost half-empty. Aaron had scarcely touched his. “But the latest research reports are proposing new ways to prevent bullying and secure healthier social interactions for children. I can give them to you, if you want. I follow lots of psychological journals, some with emphasis on child development.”  _

_ The black coffee burned Aaron’s tongue. He wondered how Reid knew he took it black, though he filled his own to the brim with cream and sugar. “I’d appreciate that,” he said. Reid brightened; it wasn’t very often he felt like his information dumping was actually helpful to someone. Aaron made a mental note to praise him for that more often. “But… you didn’t actually answer my question.”  _

_ Brow furrowing, Reid avoided his gaze. He shrugged. For a moment, Aaron thought he wouldn’t answer the question at all, thought he wouldn’t respond even to the direct address. But then, he broke the silence. “When I was six, I came home from school with my mom in the middle of a psychotic break. I’d just gotten my first pair of glasses. But she was—she was caught up in a paranoid delusion, and she thought the government was sending spies to watch us and take advantage of us. She was afraid someone was going to steal me to turn me into a super soldier.” Reid snorted derisively at that, shaking his head with incredulity. Aaron wanted to laugh as well, but he couldn’t. “She took my glasses off and said they were spy cameras for the government to keep watch on me. And then she smashed both the lenses so there were cracks all through them.”  _

_ He cleared his throat. “The next day, the boys caught up to me, like usual—they went to do that stupid thing where they took off my glasses and smudged them all up for me. The biggest one always liked to stick them in his peanut butter sandwich, since it was really hard to get the peanut butter off of them without water, and I never went to the boys’ bathroom,  _ ever. _ ” Aaron wanted to ask how he had managed that for all of his years of school—granted, not as many as the average person, but still too many for someone to regularly go eight hour intervals without bathroom breaks.  _

_ “He looked at them and said, ‘Looks like Four Eyes’s psycho bitch mom already beat me to it,’ and threw them out the bus window. And when my dad asked what happened to them, I just said they got thrown out the bus window. I didn’t tell him what she did. Even then, I thought it was my responsibility to protect her, to protect them from each other. I was working on my third doctorate before I ever realized that  _ they _ were supposed to be protecting  _ me _ , not the other way around.” _

_ Lifting his head, Reid looked back up to Aaron, though still not making eye contact; his eyes were cast slightly off to the side, to the slope of Aaron’s shoulder. He fidgeted with his hands, flipping the pen back and forth between his fingertips, seeking the stimulus of movement. “I guess what I’m saying is—you’re asking the question of what you can do to protect Jack. You’re already doing a better job of being a parent than mine ever could’ve dreamed of.”  _

_ Aaron appreciated his honesty and his advice. He opened his mouth to say so, but Reid interrupted him. “Hotch?”  _

_ “Yes?”  _

_ “Um, I hate to be a bother, but… Your computer is whining, and it’s kind of making me want to throw myself out of the window. Will you please unplug it?” Aaron raised his eyebrows and bent over to unplug the computer. The fan stopped buzzing. He hadn’t realized how loud it was until he appreciated the silence. “Thanks.”  _

_ “Thank you, Spencer.” Aaron gave the thanks in a tone like a compliment, and Reid preened beneath the praise.  _

Aaron blinked away the memory. “I didn’t tell my team what was happening. I thought I could catch Spencer on his way to the airport and talk to him without traveling cross country.” 

“But once you realized you couldn’t catch up to him, you still boarded the flight to follow him. Why?” 

What was she trying to insinuate? Some tiny, panicked voice inside of Aaron reared its ugly head, whispering,  _ She knows! She knows! How does she know? _ but he nudged it away. There was no logical way for Diana Reid to know about his intimate thoughts, feelings, and dreams. He couldn’t even have profiled that out of himself, and she was a literature professor, one battling psychosis at that; she couldn’t know. “Because my team was concerned.” 

“The team was, or you were?” 

“Both. Dr. Reid, what did you and Spencer talk about yesterday when he was here?” 

She pursed her lips, studying her short, bitten fingernails. “Lots of things.” Aaron raised his eyebrow, inviting her to continue. “Spencer sends me books every month. New ones he thinks will exercise my mind. This month, he sent me a new copy of the  _ Kildare  _ poems, supposedly transcribed more effectively than my previous copy. So far, I don’t disagree with that assessment.”

“Did you talk about the poems?”

“No. Spencer wanted to talk about Chaucer.” 

“ _ The Canterbury Tales? _ ” 

“Yes. I read Chaucer to him when he was a little boy. I told him, then, Chaucer made me feel safe. He thought it was pertinent to revisit his works now—his and Proust’s. Proust was another one of our favorites.” 

Aaron sensed he would get more from this conversation if he understood anything about the works she referenced, but without Reid to break things down and explain them to him, he lost a large portion of her intended meaning. “Spencer said he came here because he had things he needed to discuss with you. Did he say anything unusual yesterday? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Diana’s eyes scanned him. “I always taught Spencer to do his own research when he wanted to know something. He wanted to know something about himself, so he came to me to ask some questions—doing his own research.” 

“What questions were those?” 

“It’s Spencer’s news to share, not mine. He’ll be disappointed if I tell you.” She studied her fingernails. “Besides, he said he wasn’t sure yet. He said he had to talk to someone else first.” Aaron’s jaw tightened. Someone else? He was leaving Las Vegas?  _ How many flights am I going to have to catch before I find him? _ “Agent Hotchner, you’ve known my son for eight years?” 

“I’ve worked with him for eight years. I knew him a few before that.”

She nodded slowly. “And in the time you’ve known him, how many romantic prospects has he had? To your knowledge, at least.” 

Aaron inclined his eyebrows. “Two. Neither went well.” He had taken out JJ because Gideon told him to, and he’d suffered the wrath of the impulsive Lila Archer, who had kissed him without his consent. “Is he going out of his way to meet someone?” 

Diana shook her head. “No. But has it ever occurred to you why he may not have success with intimate relationships? Those with women, in particular?”

Forehead furrowing, Aaron remembered once, after the date with JJ had gone awry and Reid had clammed up about it, that Gideon had sat down across from him and said,  _ “I think the kid is gay.” _ Aaron had contributed nothing to the conversation, to that analysis, but the reminder struck him. “Are you trying to tell me Spencer is gay?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. He has found similarities in himself with Proust and asked me to confirm.” 

Proust was homosexual; Aaron only remembered this because of one of Reid’s lectures he’d overheard him excitedly sharing with Emily one day, and it was pretty hard to forget Reid sitting in the bullpen, spinning in his chair as he said, “ _ It’s so interesting that one of the most intense character studies of love and affection in literature in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was written by a gay man!”  _ while Emily tried her best to look interested and Morgan sneakily crept away. “Did you confirm?” 

“I’ve known about Spencer since he was a little boy.”

“Who else is he going to meet?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say.” Diana held his eye contact as she spoke, and he trusted she told him the truth. “He didn’t figure this out on his own, you know. He needed to experience attraction to someone to suspect it of himself.” 

Something flared inside of Aaron—jealousy, probably—and he worked to stifle and compartmentalize it like he did with all of his emotions. “So he met someone?” Why would she tell him this? Reid’s personal life wasn’t any of his business, and he had no doubt Reid wouldn’t appreciate his mother sharing the intimate facets of his existence like this, much as she tried to wrestle with her reticence. 

Crossing her arms, she leaned back. “No, this is someone he’s known for a long time, Agent Hotchner.” 

Aaron lifted his eyebrows. How many people had Reid known for a long time? The man didn’t have an active social life—none of them did, really. “I hardly know everyone Spencer knows. Is it someone in the bureau?” That would be cause for concern, he supposed, but only if Reid decided to try to pursue his attraction. Aaron doubted he would, at least without indication from the other party first.  _ Oh, god, if it’s Kevin Lynch…  _ Kevin was  _ exactly _ Reid’s type, as far as Aaron could guess—nerdy and intelligent. His technology use was antithetical to Reid’s literature worship, but together, the two of them would contain more nerd-power than an entire Comic Con. Kevin had been unbearable enough when Garcia was dating him. Aaron loathed to think of him making an appearance in Spencer’s life. 

“It’s someone on your team.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Aaron held Diana in his gaze, expecting her answer to change. Could she be mistaken? “Dr. Reid, there are only three other men on my team, and frankly we’re all a bit older than Spencer.”  _ A bit _ was pushing it—Morgan was closest to his age, with an eight year gap. “Are you sure it’s someone in the BAU?”

“I’m sure. He told me himself.” A ghost of a smile haunted her face. “He brought up Chaucer. He reminded me of when he was young, and reading Chaucer to him was the only thing that could make me feel safe, even for a moment.” Aaron blinked at the slow sadness in her voice. “He said this man makes him feel that way—safe, no matter the circumstances, that hearing his voice or smelling his cologne makes him feel at home.”

_ Someone makes him feel safe. _ Aaron knew Reid had lived a lot of his life feeling unsafe. His home had been unstable at best; school had not been a haven. Only books and learning granted him any reprieve. Reid didn’t know what stability was. It made sense he sought out an incredibly unsafe job, regardless of lacking all of the field qualifications. He wasn’t familiar with anything else. If someone truly made him feel protected, Aaron couldn’t argue with that… though he did fear whoever it was would hurt Reid if it came to a rejection.  _ Whoever it is? _ he asked himself.  _ There are only three options. _

Rossi seemed unlikely, but Reid hadn’t had a father figure in his life as a child, and it was possible he had latched onto Rossi’s mentoring tendencies and saw something more there. Rossi would not engage with Reid; he was very heterosexual, as evidenced by a string of failed marriages and the creation of several workplace fraternization rules which bore his name (and these rules which he now worked to overturn so Emily and JJ could both keep their positions on the team as a couple). 

Morgan was the most probable answer, and Aaron was less certain of what would happen between the two of them. He didn’t know if Morgan was bisexual. He had never mentioned seeking the company of men, but no one had ever asked. At worst, Morgan would find it emasculating, but Aaron doubted that sincerely—Morgan loved Reid too much to allow anything to interfere with their friendship. Perhaps they could have a happy relationship. Aaron hoped so; they both deserved it. It would hurt to see, but they would never know any different, and he would support them in spite of whatever internal misgivings he had about Reid. 

Of course, there was always the implausible possibility Reid had feelings for him. Aaron’s pulse quickened slightly at the suggestion. What would they do, then?  _ I don’t know what I feel for him. _ Aaron had been with the BAU for almost fifteen years, and even the years preceding had hardened him against his own emotions. He had stopped letting himself feel things a long time ago. Squashing down feelings was necessary. It was part of the job. He couldn’t let those things follow him; he wouldn’t perform as effectively. Figuring out how he felt about someone… Oh, that was more freedom than he ever gave his emotions. And what would he do if he  _ did _ feel a way for Reid, and the feelings  _ were _ mutual? He was Reid’s direct superior in the bureau; he couldn’t enter a relationship with him. One of them would lose their job, and the team acted far too effectively as it was to risk losing that tenuous, trusting relationship. They would look down on him and would no longer view him as a cogent leader if he fraternized with one of them, especially if it led to Reid losing his job.  _ No, Reid needs to stay at the BAU.  _ That was the only job Reid had ever had. Granted, he had enough degrees to get another, safer, higher paying job anywhere he wanted—but he had worked at the BAU since he was twenty-two and knew nothing else. 

None of the options were good options. Some selfish part of Aaron reflected on the dreams. He had dreamed again last night, his hand carding through Spencer’s soft, peanut-colored hair and nose pressed into the crook of his bare neck, smelling the delicious cinnamon and vanilla cologne, his hand wandering up the torso of Spencer’s thin, frail body and fingers covering all the ruts between his ribs. He held Spencer (he always thought of him as  _ Spencer _ in these dreams, never as  _ Reid, _ never so impersonal) and played with his hair and scratched his scalp, and Spencer purred in response, filling Aaron’s chest with affection. Could he have that in real life? He couldn’t allow it to happen. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want it. He had wanted a lot of things in his life he had denied himself. He had denied other people, too; his whole relationship with Haley had been denying her things. 

He couldn’t allow himself to consider what would happen if Reid’s feelings were mutual, because even if they were, he had a responsibility to the BAU. So did Reid. They took an oath.

“Agent Hotchner, are you familiar with the poem by Chretien de Troyes,  _ Lancelot, le Chevalier de la Charrette _ ?” 

“Not intimately, no.” 

“In the poem, Guinevere is kidnapped, and Lancelot travels by cart to try to find her, though it’s dishonorable for a knight to travel in such a peasant fashion. He swallows his pride to pursue her captor and fights for her honor. And while they each have vows which would oppose their union, they ultimately share passions with one another, only when they’re alone.” Diana scrutinized him in the odd light of the hospital room which Reid had made as homey as possible for her with the things he had sent. Aaron held her gaze, waiting for her to finish, hoping she would do so without prompting, for he feared what question he would ask if she required him to ask one. She didn’t. She winked. “Go find Guinevere, Sir Lancelot. The rest will work itself out in time.” 

Aaron shifted his jaw. Was he taking advice from a paranoid schizophrenic? True, she was lucid now and looked better than the last time he had seen her six years ago, and true, she was Reid’s mother and knew him better than anyone, but… he couldn’t take her word for it. He needed to talk to Reid face to face. That meant continuing his cross country odyssey in the manhunt for the genius gone rogue. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Reid.” 

“Any time, Agent Hotchner.” 

Aaron nodded to her and headed back downstairs. He signed out with the secretary and collected his belongings, turning on his cell phone on his way to the parking lot. The ancient dustbuster he had rented in Lake Havasu City waited for him.  _ If the team knew I drove this thing… _ There hadn’t been much of a selection, but the more he sat behind the wheel of the first generation Oldsmobile Silhouette, the more he thought it was not safe to be on the road. Unlocking the car, he climbed inside and rolled down the windows and turned on the air conditioner, giving it a few minutes to cool off after cooking in the Las Vegas sun. 

He reached for his phone. It rang before he could touch the screen. He slid to answer Garcia’s call. “What do you have for me, Garcia?” 

“Sir! Sir, sir, sir, I’m so sorry, I tried to reach you earlier, but your phone was turned off, I called as soon as it pinged, I tried to get a message to you from the front desk but I kept being taken in circles—”

“What’s going on? Did you hear from Reid?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, he called me.”

Aaron’s forehead ridged. “Where is he? What did he say?”  _ It isn’t my news to convey. _ He couldn’t tell anyone what Diana had told him—that was Reid’s job and Reid’s alone. He would tell the team in his own time.

“Well, he  _ was  _ in Las Vegas, but he called me this morning—he made me promise not to say anything, but I’m worried about him, so I’m telling you anyway, and if he’s mad at me I can always apologize later—”

“Garcia.”

“Right, right. He asked me to get a location on Gideon, and I did, so now he’s headed to Omaha—he’s probably already landed, or about to land.” 

_ Of course. Gideon would be the one person he would want to talk to before anyone else.  _ It made sense. Aaron understood it. Reid trusted Gideon unlike anyone else. Still, he withheld a sigh at the notion of flying to Omaha. “Book me a flight, please. I’m going to catch up to him eventually.”  _ If he makes it all the way back to Quantico before I find him, I’m going to lose what’s left of my sanity. _ “Does Gideon live in Omaha?”

“No—No, he does not. Gideon lives over an hour outside of Omaha somewhere sandwiched between cornfields, forests, and teeny villages. Like,  _ seriously _ in the boonies. And, uh, not to worry you, but there’s a storm growing in the airfield, and it looks like there may be some flight delays.” 

“I’ll do what I have to do.” Reid had a three hour head start, and that would only expand if the flight was delayed. “Is that all, Garcia?” 

She took a quivering breath. “Sir, this—this may be preemptive, I know I’m prone to worrying about you all when it really isn’t necessary, but—” She paused, and then she continued, “Reid has this, uh, this figurine from a show we both like,  _ Doctor Who. _ It’s a collector’s edition, only a few thousand were produced and it was distributed exclusively at Comic Con. Reid got his signed by the actor who played the character, which makes it one of a kind and worth a significant amount of money. Once, a few years ago, I, um, I asked him what I had to do to get it away from him, and he told me he would leave it to me in his will.” She gulped. “He just said he wants me to have it. I just—maybe I’ve spent too much time with JJ, but the way it sounded is really scaring me.”

“Don’t worry.” Aaron was surprised at the reassuring tone in his own voice, but he didn’t push it out. “I talked to his mother. There is something going on he has to explain—I’m not at liberty to tell you. But he isn’t in any danger, I promise you. From himself or anyone else.” 

Garcia’s voice shook on the other end of the line. She was crying. “He also—he thanked me for always being there for him, and he said there would be big news when he gets back. So he is—he is planning on coming back, right?” 

“Yes. He is. He’s safe, and he’s going to come back.” 

“Then why are you still following him?” 

_ I don’t know. _ Aaron did know. He had things he had to say to Reid. He had things he needed to hear Reid say. He wanted to have this worked out between them before they made it back to Quantico, before all those profiling eyes landed on them and began to sort things out. “There’s something I need to talk about with him.”

“Oh my god,” Garcia breathed. “Did he get someone pregnant?” 

Aaron chuckled.  _ No, the exact opposite, I’m afraid. _ “No, he did not.” 

She clicked her tongue. “Well, I’m stumped. I’m forwarding the details of your flight to your phone. Let me know when you land—especially if the plane catches on fire again.”

“I will. Thank you, Garcia.” 

The call ended, and Aaron drove away, heading to the airport. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment if you like this piece; I love to hear your thoughts! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story, please drop me a kudos or leave a comment and let me know. <3
> 
> In canon, Reid is shown drinking several times; however, because NA and AA encourage complete substance sobriety (that is, no drug/alcohol use at all, regardless of initial substance abused), I personally write him as being entirely sober. That is mentioned in this chapter, so I'm just throwing out this note so nobody gets confused. <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” -John Muir

…

Stepping through the florid, mystical wonder of the forest, Spencer lifted his head to the canopy of leaves clustered above him. The yellow sunlight dappled the earth, covered in red and orange leaves and bright tufts of grass. He smiled at the satisfactory  _ crunch _ of each footstep in the leaves. Crunchy leaves—those were sensory bliss. If he hadn’t been on a mission, he would have taken a few minutes just to parade around in the crunchy leaves and enjoy the sound and the sensation. 

But he was on a mission. He followed the path toward the address Garcia had given him; it wasn’t a road, just a trail, really. The tire tracks rutted deep. Spencer had feared driving his tiny, old, rear wheel drive rental down the path—somehow, he suspected getting his car clogged up on Gideon’s property would not make him receive Spencer’s arrival well. Spencer looked up at the sky, the periwinkle with cotton candy clouds above. A heavy layer of gray gloom had followed him from the airport in his rearview mirror, and the radio reported airfields were going to be delayed from immense thunder and lightning.  _ Smack dab in the middle of tornado alley. _ He didn’t want to spend hours stuck in Gideon’s basement with him, but if the situation called for it, he didn’t have anyone else to meet. 

Well, no one alive, anyway. He had one more place he would stop before he headed back to Quantico. But nothing there would recognize him except the ghosts of the past. 

Spencer emerged from the well-driven path to a white picket fence. It was six feet tall, but he could peer through the slats to see the cottage within. The yard had a well-tended garden, also protected by fencing, and some flowerbeds. It had a rustic appeal, though everything seemed fresh and new, no more than a few years old. None of the cottage’s windows showed lights on inside.  _ Is he home? _ Spencer had just assumed he would find him here. He reached into his back pocket to check his phone, but he didn’t have any bars all the way out here. 

A white Dodge Ram was parked off to the side, and the driving gate was closed and padlocked.  _ Well, he doesn’t have to worry about getting bogged down back here, no matter how much it rains. _ The other gate, smaller, for a pedestrian, was latched but not locked. Spencer saw no buzzer—he doubted, from the look of things, Gideon used any such technology here—so he lifted the latch of the fence. He latched it behind himself. His shoes landed on the mulch path toward the front door of the cabin. 

With a snarl, a large rottweiler rounded the corner of the cottage. _ Oh, shit. _ Spencer’s statistics made an emergency exit, and so did the logic which told him he could go right back out the gate behind him and close it so the dog couldn’t pursue. So did all of the logic which told him running from an aggressive dog would cause it to give chase. Spencer saw the nearest vantage point—the back of the Dodge Ram—and dashed toward it. 

He did know, no matter the circumstances, apes were better climbers than canines. 

He had a few paces ahead of the massive dog, which almost certainly weighed as much as he did. Flinging himself at the truck, he landed on his diaphragm across the side of the bed. Legs churning, he caught the top of the tire, pushing himself into the bed of the truck.

Pain pinched through the toes of his left foot. Spencer cried out at the brief sensation, but then it disappeared, and he dragged himself into the middle of the bed of the truck. Pulling himself up on the cab, he sat there, looking down at the dog. It stood on its back legs, springing at him, snarling and snapping and growling. His left shoe rested on the earth beside it. The dog had bitten all the way through the top of it, but it had been discarded in favor of the real target, Spencer, clinging to the cab of the truck where he was out of the reach of the dog’s vicious jowls. Gulping, Spencer looked down at his left foot. The sock had a hole torn in it, but the dog hadn’t managed to break the skin.  _ I’m lucky. _ A second later and he would’ve been nursing a serious bite, or worse, would’ve found himself dragged back down to the earth. 

The rottweiler pounced at the door of the truck. Its claws scrabbled at the white paint, trying to find hold to climb after its target. Spencer peered down at it before retreating toward the middle of the cab. His chest ached. He massaged the place below his ribs where he had landed on the side of the truck. Reaching reflexively, he found he wore no holster—he had left his gun in the car.  _ Probably a good thing. _ He couldn’t imagine this ending well if he shot Gideon’s dog. 

Garcia had joked, “ _ You’ll find out if the Reid effect is still in function, hm? _ ” Clearly, from the dog barking and snapping at him from below, the Reid effect had only grown stronger with time.  _ Where the hell is Gideon? _ How long was he going to sit here on top of Gideon’s truck while he waited for someone to come save him and reel in the incensed animal? 

Spencer leaned back, tilting his head up to the sky, where the fluffy cotton candy clouds fattened and sank with heaviness. Maybe if it started to rain, the dog would leave. Spencer doubted it, though; the dog could almost certainly smell his fear and knew it had good prey secured on top of the truck. It just had to wait for him to come down.  _ I probably could’ve lived with being a gay man who hadn’t been chased up on top of an impressive truck by an angry dog.  _ He hoped talking to Gideon helped him.

He didn’t know why he was holding back, really. Perhaps because he felt he needed Gideon’s approval, for some unknown reason. Gideon had assumed the role of Spencer’s father after his actual father had left, and since then, Spencer had craved his blessing. Gideon’s abandonment had pushed him over the edge, and Spencer had taken a long time to come to terms with it, but now, something required Gideon’s attention. If he heard Gideon say it was okay… maybe that would ease the blow. 

His mother had helped. He could walk away (or at least, he could’ve before the rottweiler had effectively treed him and torn off his shoe). But some strange part of him  _ wanted _ Gideon to know, wanted his opinion, wanted to know if he had known before and if he had, why had he set Spencer up on that failed date with JJ? (He was glad Garcia had tagged along; it almost certainly would’ve been a bad night if he had been alone with JJ, trying and failing to flirt with her to live up to Gideon’s perceived expectations.) 

The dog scrabbled at the side of the truck, not ceasing its barking.  _ It’s going to chip the paint.  _ Would Gideon be angry with him for climbing on top of the truck like this? He had nowhere else to go. Gideon had no right to be upset; he was the one who owned a Spencer-eating dog. Granted, most dogs were Spencer-eating dogs, but it didn’t absolve him of guilt in this scenario. 

_ Looks like I may be out here for awhile. _ Sitting back on his haunches, Spencer decided to do his best to relax. The dog couldn’t reach him—or if it could, it didn’t know how yet—and he didn’t know when Gideon would be home, until—

“Canary! Canary, come here, girl! You’ve been barking ten solid minutes! What’s the problem?” Spencer sat cross-legged on top of the cab. His heart picked up in his chest at the sound of Gideon’s voice. Was he prepared for this? He couldn’t run. The dog would catch him. He couldn’t change his mind now. “Did you see that bobcat again, girl?” Gideon rounded the cottage from the back, sweeping the yard with his eyes. He found Canary, the rottweiler, first (and Spencer wondered how on earth Gideon decided to name the enormous dog  _ Canary _ of all things), and then he lifted his eyes to her target. “Well, I’ll be.” 

Gideon approached with his hands on his hips, squinting up at Spencer like the sun was in his eyes, though the clouds clustered overhead, darker with each passing minute. Thunder crackled in the distance. Spencer flinched. The movement caused Canary to launch into another attack, snapping as high up on the truck as she could reach. “Down, girl, down,” Gideon discouraged. He pulled her back by her collar, and reluctantly, she caved, sinking back behind him with a low growl. She kept her ears pinned and her eyes rimmed in white. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “Well, apparently, I’m being chased on top of your truck by your dog. Can I have my shoe, please?” 

Shrugging, Gideon bent down and picked up his shoe. He lifted it up onto the cab of the truck, and Spencer slid it back onto his foot. His sock showed through the torn top of the shoe. “What were you doing before Canary treed you?” 

This was the harder part; it was a harder conversation to have than the one he had started with his mother. He wasn’t sure why. His mother had treated him violently plenty of times in the past. Gideon had never raised a hand against him or threatened him in any way. Logic said this conversation should go more smoothly… but logic had such little bearing on his feelings and the way he conducted himself on this matter. “I need to talk to you about something.” 

“That could’ve been a phone call.” 

“Would you have answered?” 

Brow crinkling, Gideon tilted his head. “Of course, Spencer.”

“You didn’t answer the last thirty-two times I called you.”

“Things were different then. You know that. Unless you’re still going to try to talk to me the way you would have four years ago.” 

Spencer hadn’t come this far to spar with Gideon. “No. No, I’m not, I—I need to ask you some questions. About me.” The charcoal-toned clouds drooped heavier and heavier overhead. A fat droplet fell into Spencer’s hair. “Er, can I come down, or…” He didn’t want to have this conversation sitting on top of Gideon’s Dodge Ram beneath the rain clouds, but he would if there was no other way to keep the dog from attacking him. 

Gideon backed up, calling Canary away from the truck, and she obeyed as Reid slid off of the cab into the bed and stepped back upon the earth. His foot ached, but he comforted himself in knowing the dog had done nothing but bruise him a little and scare him a lot. The dog regarded him with walleyed wariness, but she didn’t approach, keeping clear from his path. “Come inside. The weather says this storm is supposed to be a bad one.” Gideon gestured for him to follow, and he did, eagerly trotting to keep up with him just as he had as a new agent on the BAU—desperate to prove himself and live up to Gideon’s expectations. 

Opening the front door, the dog rushed inside. She went to a crate in the corner, bedding down inside it. Spencer’s eyes browsed the cottage, a small open-concept building with all of Gideon’s favorite contemporary art on the walls. He had no television—the living room was silent because of it, and Spencer appreciated the lack of electronic whine—but his microwave made quite the noise all the way from the kitchen. Gideon made eye contact with him. “You can unplug it if you want.”

“Thanks.”

It was a modest but modern kitchen with clean, new appliances. Spencer unplugged the microwave from the wall. The silence consumed him. He sighed with relief. “You’re still weird about ambient noise, huh?” 

“Not all ambient noise. Just the annoying ones. They’re sensory hell. Make it difficult to focus on anything else.” Without the microwave, Spencer liked the cottage. It was quiet, save for the birds, and while he found them irritating, he knew how much Gideon liked birdsong. “This place must be your paradise.” 

“It is.” Spencer rounded to face him, and Gideon wore a small, sad smile. “I missed you, Spencer.” 

He searched Gideon with his eyes, looking for some sign of dishonesty, but his palms were forward and honest. He was telling the truth. “I missed you, too.” His eyes darted away. Looking at him now, four years later, felt strange. He had spent those years missing Gideon, thinking about him, worrying about him, wondering what he had done wrong, wondering why… (Some part of him would always think Hankel was why, would always see that was the beginning of the end for Gideon.) “Can we talk?” 

Gideon nodded. “Of course. Please, have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Wine, or chardonnay?”

“I don’t drink.” 

The hair on the back of Spencer’s neck stood up as Gideon examined him like a science experiment. He didn’t waver as he sat on the worn leather couch, and then he looked at Gideon’s face, making eye contact only long enough to read his expression before his eyes dropped back down to the hardwood floors. Gideon had always understood his aversion to eye contact, never pressured him for anything he wasn’t ready to give. “How long?”

“Four years, nine months, and seventeen days.” 

“I’m proud of you.” 

“Thank you.” 

Gideon brought him a bottle of water, anyway, and sat across from him in an oversize tweed chair. Spencer liked this place. He wished he would’ve been invited. It smelled nice, nothing too strong, not chemically and polluted like the city, but not too baroque in its scents, either. The forest masked the sounds naturally. The rain on the rooftop cascaded upon them, and rivulets ran down the windows. Ordinarily, Spencer would’ve sat by the window to watch the raindrops race, figuring the math in his head to pick which one would win based on the velocity of the rain, the speed of the wind, the resistance of the glass, and the force of gravity. But now, Gideon held his attention. 

The dull rumble of thunder calmed him. Sharper peals would have startled him, but with the distance, he felt the tension leave his shoulders and his back, leaning back against the couch. Gideon smiled at him. “So rain is a sensory  _ bliss _ ambient noise, then?” 

Spencer shrugged. “Guess so.” 

“You know there are apps for that. Rain sound. To help you sleep.” 

Raising his eyebrows, Spencer snorted a chuckle. “Of all the people in the world, I never expected you’d be one to tell me  _ there’s an app for that. _ ”

Gideon inhaled deeply. He smelled the freshness of the rain. Spencer smelled it, too. It was also a comfort, just like Hotch’s cologne.  _ A place like this would be great to fall in love. _ His cheeks gained a ghost of a blush as he thought about the fantasy, living in some remote cabin like this, lying together in a bed with clean sheets and listening to the rain and smelling the roasting firewood keeping the room warm. “So what did you want to talk about?” 

He’d already had this conversation once, already asked this question once, so finding the words wasn’t as difficult this time. Still, he needed to set up the framework. “Why did you send me on a date with JJ?” 

Gideon blinked. “Spencer, that was seven years ago. You came all this way to talk about a bad date?”

“Why?”

“Well—I suppose because you were a twenty-four year old virgin who everybody thought was a naive kid with the sex appeal of a math textbook, and I wanted to try to change that.” 

“But it didn’t work.”

“I guess not. You never told me what happened.” 

Spencer drummed his fingers on his knees, feeling the fabric of his pants and the way it moved beneath his touch. “JJ didn’t know it was a date and invited Garcia. I was embarrassed, but we all had a good time, and in retrospect, it probably went better than it would have if she’d understood the intention.” He licked his lips. This conversation wasn’t going where he had planned—if he had planned it at all. “What did you think was going to happen, though? With me and her?” 

Clasping his hands together, Gideon frowned. “I don’t know. I thought she liked you. She gave you a cute nickname and helped throw you a birthday party.”

“But did you think I liked her?” Gideon was silent; it echoed, tension crackling in the air. Spencer bit the inside of his cheek, expecting Gideon to have  _ some _ answer, even if the answer was no. “You didn’t.” Gideon shook his head, touching his scalp with uncertainty written on his face. This was a difficult conversation, one he probably hadn’t had with Stephen. Spencer’s eyes shone with tears, but he didn’t shed them—not yet, anyway, and he prayed he could make it through the conversation without choking up. “Am I gay?” he whispered.

“I don’t know the answer to that question.”

“But you have a suspicion, don’t you? You’ve always had that suspicion, and you used JJ as a guinea pig to try to confirm it, and when that didn’t go well, you thought you had your answer.” Gideon held his gaze, uncertain what to say, and Spencer wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear, either—confirmation? Denial? Would he buy either one of those if Gideon offered them? 

Gideon’s jaw shifted. “Yes, I—I had an inkling. I didn’t push it because you already had a target on your back in the bureau. Everybody wants to have a jab at the new nerdy, weird kid who failed every field test and does complex math to calm down. The other field agent trainees were cruel to you. You didn’t need anything else putting you at risk.” His brow furrowed. “Perhaps I should’ve said something sooner. And maybe I would have, if I had been there. I’m sorry for that.” 

With the clouds clustering outside, the light from the windows blotted out, leaving them mostly in the dark, but neither moved to turn on a light. They both knew some lights made sounds Spencer didn’t like and preferred the darkness to his discomfort. “I’m not angry. I don’t want your apology. I just—I needed to make sure you knew.” 

Gideon frowned, his face catching the shadows of the room. “Why?” 

Spencer picked at his fingernails. “I’m doing my research. Interviewing an expert.” 

“Forgive me, but I don’t think that’s how most people come out.” Spencer smiled, his eyes darting down to the floor. “You’ve never been like most people, have you?” Gideon shook his head, hanging his hands in front of him from his knees. “So who is it?” 

Part of him wanted to hesitate, but Spencer didn’t. He trusted Gideon. In some ways, he had  _ only _ ever truly trusted Gideon. Other authority figures had all deceived him and misled him. His father had abandoned him; his mother had always been unstable; his professors undercut him; his teammates at the BAU viewed him as a little brother who needed protecting. Gideon had left, too, had abandoned him just like his father… but he was also the only person who had never underestimated or mistreated Spencer. “Hotch.” 

“Oh.” Gideon sounded like the wind was knocked out of him. “Really?” Spencer nodded. “That’s not… Well, not who I expected, to say the least.”

“Who did you expect?” 

“Morgan.” 

“Oh. I guess I could see that.” Spencer frowned as he thought about it. Morgan definitely had everything a man or a woman could want in a partner. Muscular, funny, attractive, charming. But Spencer would always see him more as family than partner material. “I think I like the more broody types.” It was his mom’s influence, always reading him those stories about stoic, brooding, dark men. 

Gideon acknowledged his words, musing to himself in his head before he finally asked, “What are you going to do about it?” 

_ I don’t know, yet. _ “There’s nothing to do about it.”

“Because he’s married?” 

Tracing the hems of his pockets of his pants, Spencer sat back. “No, actually… they divorced, and then, um, then Haley was murdered.” Gideon’s eyes widened. “She and Jack were stalked by a killer who escaped custody, and he found them in WitSec and, uh, killed her. On speaker phone, so we could all hear her die.” 

“But Jack was okay?”

“Yeah. Jack hid. He wasn’t hurt, it just—it was too late for Haley.” Spencer kept tracing the hem. There was a thread out of place from the pocket being overused. He needed to sew it back down before the whole thing ripped out. “But, I mean… It doesn’t make him available. Rossi has been trying to convince him to go on double dates, and he won’t do it. He says he won’t have someone else hurt by his career path.” 

Gideon tilted his head. “So, arguably, the best person for him would be someone who already works in the field. So his career wouldn’t hurt them additionally.” 

A pout of concentration worked its way upon Spencer’s lips. “I suppose, yeah, if he found a woman in the field he liked.” 

“It wouldn’t have to be a woman.” 

“I’m not here for you to lead me on some fanatical goose chase about how Hotch actually secretly returns my feelings.” Spencer knew he could be a  _ little _ naive in some aspects, pop culture mainly, but even someone he trusted as much as Gideon couldn’t mislead him into thinking his feelings for Hotch were mutual. He wasn’t entirely foolish; love hadn’t robbed him of all of his other senses. 

“I didn’t say that. I just said it wouldn’t have to be a woman. Hotch likes men, too.” The wind rushed over the side of the cottage. Gideon sank back into the oversized chair. “Haley told me about it once. They took a break in college for a few years, and Hotch dated some guy; I think he was a relative of one of his classmates or something like that. They were together for a few months, anyway, before he and Haley made their way back together again. You can believe it or not, but that’s what Haley told me, and I can’t see her having any reason to lie.” 

Spencer ruminated. Gideon had an anecdote about how Hotch was bisexual; that didn’t change anything. Many more things separated them than perceived heterosexuality (though he would admit, perceived heterosexuality had had a pretty big influence, if he said so himself). There was the age gap—ten years meant little to Spencer, who had been around people older than him his whole life, but Hotch was more conservative with his values, and Spencer sensed the gap would worry him. Hotch was his direct superior at work, which would elicit concern from the bureau and could potentially lead to one of them getting reassigned. Intra-team fraternization was forbidden between agents, causing enough of an issue for JJ and Emily, but between a unit chief and his underling, they would almost definitely riot upstairs. Strauss would have Hotch’s head on a silver platter. 

And, of course, there was Haley and Jack and everything Hotch had gone through. He had to worry about raising his son as a single father. His career had gotten his wife killed in a terrible, violent way, and the trauma from that haunted Hotch. If nothing else stood between them, Spencer doubted Hotch was ready to move on yet. He hardly ever smiled anymore. He worked many late nights, whenever Jack was at a friend’s or with Jessica. He had his own demons to battle, and nothing pointed to him being ready to scale that mountain yet. 

“You’re awfully thoughtful,” Gideon said. “Viewing Hotch in a new light?” 

Spencer shook his head. “Reminding myself there are still a world of obstacles between us, even given the extremely slim chance that my feelings are mutual.” 

“I like to believe love makes things happen.” 

With a snort, Spencer raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t come expecting a pep talk.” What did Gideon think was going to happen, rationally? Hotch wasn’t the kind of person to engage in an intra-team relationship,  _ even _ if he felt it would be a good decision otherwise. He wouldn’t jeopardize his position in the bureau for anyone, much less a loser like Spencer. Hotch had always treated him more like an older brother to a younger one (or worse, a father to a son). He had no reason to expect that to change now. 

Gideon sat back on the tweed chair, crossing his legs as he gazed at Spencer. His face was almost indiscernible from the shadows. “You’re right. The odds are slim. But—don’t rule anything out just yet. You’re young. There are so many things yet to happen to you that you can’t even imagine yet.” Spencer grinned. He certainly had never imagined his life bringing him to this point. “What’s so funny?” 

“Just that—if you had told me when I was twenty that in ten years, I’d be here, I would’ve told you you were crazier than my mom.” 

“Which part?” 

“All of it.” Spencer held his water bottle in his hand, but he didn’t drink from it. Instead, he cracked the seal and fidgeted with the lid, twisting it back and forth over the mouth of the bottle. “I’m a thirty year old virginal gay man sitting in a cottage with you somewhere in rural Nebraska. Do you really think twenty year old Spencer would be proud right now?” 

Gideon puffed a quiet laugh. “Twenty year old Spencer couldn’t figure out how to load a revolver and didn’t have the upper arm strength to do two pull-ups. What did he know?” 

“Let’s be fair, only one of those things changed.” Spencer kept spinning the lid over the top of the water bottle. “I never used that Glock Hotch gave me.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t know. I have it.” Spencer licked his lips. “I keep it in my memento box.” 

Gideon appraised him. “What else is in there?”

Spencer shrugged. “My dad’s letter. My mom’s favorite book. Uh, an old preserved butterfly from JJ, a page of stickers Garcia gave me, one of Morgan’s shield coins, a recipe book from Rossi, a New York postcard from Elle, the chess set you gave me, a Nellie Fox baseball card, a 1944 penny. Some things from high school and from college. That’s—That’s most of it, I guess.” 

“You know that penny is worth a lot of money.” Spencer nodded. “But that’s not why you wanted it.”

Spencer shook his head. “No, I—I started looking for one after Hotch mentioned it one time. I was going to give it to him, but then I thought maybe he would think I was weird for holding onto that fact for so long—it took me years to find one.” 

“There are services to have pennies melted into rings, you know.” 

Spencer couldn’t help himself. He snickered. “Well, when Hotch and I get  _ married _ , I’ll be sure to turn my penny worth thousands of dollars into a ring for him, and I’ll have flying pigs deliver your wedding invitation.” Gideon’s smile cracked back at him across the room. “You’re more of a hopeless romantic than I remember.”

Gideon tilted his head. “I needed to get away from the job to remember I do believe in happy endings.” 

Eyes downcast, Spencer mused on his words. Happy endings. He had never grown up with such a fable. He had known from a young age that his parents were not happy. His mother had never entertained him with those storybooks about the prince and the princess riding off into the sunset. His fairytales rarely had satisfying endings; they tended to mirror that of Lancelot and Guinevere, one penniless and the other in an abbey at the end of their days. The happy endings he knew of—those were the people they saved. But did the happiness really last? Rebecca Garner had struggled to live for so long only for her life to end brutally the next year. The victims they saved undoubtedly carried trauma beyond the comprehension of most people. Did they appreciate the gift of life the BAU granted? Or did they spend their days wishing they hadn’t been saved?

There had been a time Spencer had wished he hadn’t been saved. Rock bottom for him had happened in the laundry room of his apartment building. He didn’t  _ remember _ it, exactly. He had woken up on the couch of his elderly neighbor, Cheryl, the next day, naked except for his underwear and covered in a warm blanket. But from her report, she’d found him unconscious in a pool of his own vomit in front of one of the washing machines, needle still in hand and glass vial shattered on the floor. He’d wanted to die right then from the embarrassment—what the hell was he doing with his life, that his octogenarian neighbor had hauled his nearly lifeless body up four flights of stairs to her apartment, undressed him, did his laundry, and let him sleep off his high? No successful person’s story had ever started with, “Somebody’s grandma let me sleep off my overdose on her couch”—Or that was what he had thought, then, anyway.

But that time had passed. It had hurt, but it had passed, and it got easier. Maybe he wasn’t the definition of  _ successful, _ but he was healing, and it got easier every day. 

Maybe there was such a thing as happy endings. But it was hard for him to tell. His story wasn’t over, yet.

“You’re not sure you believe in happy endings?” Gideon asked at his silence. 

“Not yet,” Spencer admitted. “But I think I’m getting closer every day.” He fidgeted with the water bottle some more before he finally took a drink from it. He swallowed. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. “I think JJ and Emily are happy together. With Henry.” There was no reason he couldn’t have that—maybe not now, probably not with Hotch, but at some point in the future. There was no reason he couldn’t have that type of ending. “It was work for them, getting there, but they’re happy now.” 

“No one ever said happiness wasn’t hard work.” Spencer nodded slowly. “Like this. Coming here to tell me this. It wasn’t easy, was it?” 

His gaze flicked back up to Gideon and then down to the floor again. “No,” he admitted. 

“But you feel better now that you’ve done it.” 

“I feel better than I have in years.” Spencer felt he had shed an old skin, like picking the dead flakes from a sunburn. The new one was still fresh and tender and tight, a little uncomfortable where he was unused to wearing it, but it suited him more than his old one ever had. It would adjust, and it would fit soon enough, like a new sweater vest he hadn’t quite broken in yet. 

Gideon stood, holding out a hand to him. Spencer stared up at him, taken aback by his actions, but he saw the open palm as an invitation, so he mirrored him, placing his hand in Gideon’s own. “This was very brave. I’m proud of you,” he said again. Gideon held him at arm’s length in the dim, gray light from the overcast sky filtering in through the window, and then he pulled Spencer into a hug. 

A lump rose into Spencer’s throat at the embrace, the warm and comforting arms around his back. Gideon hugged him like he remembered his father would when he was a little boy. As his throat closed with tears, he fought the urge to cry— _ you’re not sad, don’t be stupid— _ but they were tears of relief and joy at the complete acceptance rubbed into his back by large, rough hands. “I love you, son,” Gideon whispered to his ear. 

Spencer found it difficult to speak. He didn’t want his voice to shake. He didn’t want to be so vulnerable. But he had already bared himself to this new world, and the approval from Gideon moved him so much, he allowed a few tears to fall. “I love you, too.” 

Gideon pushed his hair back out of his eyes and wiped away his tears. The thunder cracked overhead like a whip. Spencer flinched. “You can’t drive in that. It’s going to pour all night.” Gideon patted him on the shoulder and released him. “Let’s make dinner, and you can stay here tonight. Alright?” 

Smiling sheepishly, Spencer nodded. “That sounds good.” 

…

At Quantico, Penelope turned off her monitors for the evening. “Coming, babygirl?” Morgan called from outside. “We’re all starving. Rossi’s getting impatient.”

“I’m just fine,” Rossi called from the hallway, “but JJ is holding the elevator.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Penelope filled her purse and trotted out of her office, locking everything up. “I was trying to sort things out with Hotch. His flight got scrambled around from the thunderstorms, so he ended up rerouted.” Her heels clicked on the floor as she hurried after Morgan, JJ, Rossi, and Emily. “Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re having dinner night without them?”

Rossi shrugged. “Reid took some PTO, and Hotch panicked. Sounds like a  _ them _ problem.”

Morgan’s shoulders rotated as they all piled into the elevator. “I dunno. Hotch doesn’t panic. Have you  _ ever  _ seen him blink? He has a smile threshold of three times a year. For something to spook him enough to send him after Reid like that, something  _ has _ to be going on. There’s gotta be something they’re not telling us.” 

JJ picked at the strap of her purse. “I’m worried about Spence. He hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls since he left.”

“Me neither,” Emily said. 

“Me, either,” Morgan confirmed. “But you’ve heard from him, right, babygirl?” He nudged Penelope pointedly. 

Suddenly, all eyes were on her. “Er… Yeah. Yeah, uh, he called me. But he asked me not to tell anyone what it’s about.”

“You told Hotch, didn’t you?” JJ pressed. 

Penelope swallowed. “Yeah, but—”

“But?” Rossi raised his eyebrows. “If there’s something we need to know, Garcia, you should tell us.” 

_ Thanks, Derek. _ Penelope shot him a withering glance before she looked back to the team. “Fine. Reid left Las Vegas and headed to Omaha, and Hotch is following him, but there’s a string of storms along the Midwest right now which delayed his flights. Reid’s still almost a whole day of travel ahead of him.” 

Emily’s eyes narrowed. “ _ Omaha? _ ” she repeated. “What the hell does he want that’s in  _ Omaha? _ There’s nothing in Nebraska but cornfields and cows.” 

“And Gideon.” Rossi crossed his arms. Everyone lifted their gaze to him. “Gideon has a cottage property a good distance outside of Omaha in the woods. You all said Reid and Gideon have a thing, right?” 

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “A  _ thing _ is putting it lightly. Reid was Gideon’s protege. Gideon moved heaven and earth to get him on the BAU. Risked his own reputation by waiving field tests and health restrictions.” JJ nodded in agreement. “But none of us have had contact with Gideon for years. He took off, got the hell out of dodge. What’s making Reid go after him now? And why aren’t any of us in on it?” 

They were looking at Penelope again. “I don’t know anything,” she admitted. “I don’t. Reid wouldn’t tell me anything. He said he had something to tell us, but he wanted to tell Gideon first, and he didn’t want to say it over the phone. He promised he would tell all of us in person when he got back.” 

“Did it sound like bad news or good news?” Emily asked. JJ worried her lower lip between her teeth. 

Penelope tried to push an anxious smile. “It sounded like good news,” she said, trying to cling to her optimism instead of her anxiety. “I know it’s hard not to worry, but—I really think he’s okay. And Hotch is going to catch up to him eventually. He’s just been dealt a bad hand for a few days.”

Rossi nodded. “Well, you’ve all heard the magnificent lady Athena! There’s nothing to worry about.” The elevator dinged as it reached the lowest floor. Rossi led the way across the lobby. “Come with me,  _ miei bambini! _ Tonight, we’re exploring the magic of pasta e fagioli with escarole!”

They followed him across the lobby toward the sliding glass doors. Penelope’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her purse. 

A. Hotchner:  _ Just landed in Omaha. Tornado warning. I’m in the basement of the airport. Looks like I’ll be here awhile. Thanks for all your help.  _

P. Garcia:  _ Stay safe!  _ 💐🌸 🌺

A. Hotchner:  _ Has Reid called you again? Do you know where he’s going next? _

P. Garcia:  _ No. He hasn’t answered calls from anyone on the team either. Cell has been off since he left Las Vegas. If he told anyone anything, it was probably Gideon.  _

A. Hotchner:  _ I figured. Let me know if you learn anything else.  _

P. Garcia: 🌸 _ OFC! _ 🌼 🌻

“Uh, Garcia?” Penelope looked up from her phone. The team stood in the lobby, looking back at her, waiting for her to exit the elevator, which still rested with its doors open. “You coming?” Rossi asked. 

She brightened. “Yes, of course! I’m coming, Papa Pasta!” She trotted after them in haste. 

P. Garcia:  _ It’s dinner night! Papa Pasta awaits. _ 🍝  _ TTYL, boss man. _

A. Hotchner: _ Have fun. _


	5. Chapter 5

“If you don’t get lost, there’s a chance you may never be found.” -Moira Fowley-Doyle

…

The Chevy Suburban followed the muddy, rutted dirt path through the forest. Songbirds sang a tune of late morning. Yellow sunlight dappled the earth from between the clouds and the sodden canopy of greenery above. As the wind blew, the leaves spat their fat drops upon the windshield of the Suburban. Several times, the wheels began to catch and spin, flinging up mud, but each time, the Suburban managed to unearth itself and continued to chug down the muddied path. 

The tire tracks held deep puddles and looked undisturbed. If Reid had driven down this way, he had done it before the storm had hit.  _ He might’ve just walked the path, _ Aaron thought; he could make out shoe prints in the shallowest spots of mud. It seemed more likely Reid hadn’t trusted whatever vehicle he had rented to traverse this path safely and had left it near the mouth of the road, traveling by foot to Gideon’s cottage. 

The white picket fence appeared before Aaron, the car gate locked and chained shut. Aaron parked there and swung out of the Suburban, careful not to spatter muck on his shoes. He approached the pedestrian gate and lifted the latch. He closed it behind him. The latch clicked into place audibly. His shoes sank into the saturated mulch with a soft  _ squelch. _

A sharp bark echoed from around the corner. Aaron lifted his head as the rottweiler rushed at him. He squared up, feet apart, arms up, as the dog charged at him.  _ That thing could’ve had Reid for dinner and still had room for dessert. _ But the dog slowed as it approached him. It dropped a slobbery red ball at his feet. It wagged its tail enthusiastically. He made to step around it, but it barked at him, threatening to jump and mark his expensive tailored suit with its icky, dirty paws. 

Aaron didn’t much care for dogs. Cats were cleaner and required less attention. He much preferred the attitude of an intelligent cat, a  _ look don’t touch _ personality to be respected and understood, over a clingy, needy dog. The front door of the cottage squeaked as it swung open. Aaron took a step back, dodging the dog’s grubby paws. “Jason, please come collect your mongrel.” 

“Sorry, Spencer already left.” Aaron shot him a withering look, and Gideon gave his familiar grin, eyes crinkled at the edges. “Come here, Canary! Come here, girl!” He whistled, and Canary trotted away from Aaron, climbing the porch steps to Jason’s side. She shook vigorously, spattering mud everywhere. Gideon threw her a fresh ball. She darted after it, and Aaron took her absence to climb the stairs to greet him. “I’m surprised she likes you. Things didn’t go so well yesterday.”

“The Reid effect?” Aaron guessed. 

Gideon raised his eyebrows, giving a nod. “She ripped off his shoe. I found him on top of my truck.” He nodded out to the Dodge Ram a few yards away. “Sitting on the cab, waiting for the end to come. She treed him like a raccoon.” 

Aaron’s gaze followed the beastly canine. “A dog that size, Reid would only be a light snack. She must weigh as much as he does.”

“I think she smelled his fear.” 

With a silent snort, Aaron looked back up to Gideon. “You named her  _ Canary? _ ”

“I like canaries. I thought she deserved a cute name to take the edge off of the bad perceptions around rottweilers as a breed.” Gideon held his eye contact. “But I feel like you’re probably not here to talk about the name of my dog, are you?” 

Aaron bit back a sigh. “I am not.” It was clear he had fallen short of catching Reid again—not that he hadn’t expected it, with the hold up from the storms in Omaha, but it didn’t make the failure sting less. If he didn’t catch up with Reid until DC, he would have gone through all of this trouble for nothing. “How long ago did he leave?” 

Holding open the door for him, Gideon ushered him inside, and Aaron obeyed, slipping out of his shoes so he wouldn’t track mud into the cottage. “Just half an hour ago. He said he had one more stop to make.”

“Did he say where?” 

Gideon entered the kitchen. “He said he would go back to where it all began.” Two mugs of coffee rested on the countertop. He pushed one into Aaron’s hand. “You know where that is, don’t you?”

Aaron took a sip from the coffee. It was cold. His face twisted in displeasure. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.” He opened the microwave and put the mug inside of it. “Lukewarm coffee is really your welcome?” He pressed the buttons on the front of the microwave, but it didn’t respond, didn’t flash or beep in acknowledgment. 

“I figured you were coming, but I didn’t know when.” Aaron pressed on the microwave some more. “It would help if you plug it in.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t say?” He plugged it into the wall. “I take it that was Reid’s doing?” Gideon nodded. Aaron microwaved the mug of coffee until it was hot again, and then he stirred it with a spoon, offering a quiet  _ thanks _ as he sipped from it. It was quiet here. He could hear the birds. He never heard the birds in DC. He never saw a sky as clear as the one here. “It’s beautiful here.” Gideon nodded. “You’re being quiet.”

“How much do you know about Spencer?” 

“Enough.” The single word didn’t satisfy Gideon, who inclined his head, inviting Aaron to divulge more information. “I spoke to his mother.” Looking into Gideon’s eyes while talking about this was odd, he thought; Gideon was a friend to him, someone he respected immensely, and talking about his feelings had never been easy for him.  _ But they’re not my feelings. They’re Reid’s feelings. _ Aaron tried to convince himself of it, but he knew it was a lie. “How much did he tell you?” 

“It’s not my information to share.”

Arching an eyebrow in return, Aaron challenged him, “Nor is it mine. But I’ve flown across the country and sundry looking for him, so I think I’ve earned my keep.” 

Gideon smiled at him. “Did you know?” 

Aaron pressed his lips into a thin line. Finally, he caved. He looked away. “No. You told me you suspected, but—I never even considered it. I didn’t consider it consequential. It didn’t matter to me whether or not he was gay.” He never would have treated Reid any differently if he had known earlier. He wouldn’t have regarded him in a different light. He loved Reid as a friend and teammate  _ first _ , before anything else, and nothing could have detracted from Reid’s value as a member of the BAU. “Maybe I should have thought about it sooner.”

Gideon stood beside him, both with their backs to the countertop, staring across the kitchen floor. “Do you think that would’ve changed anything?” 

Jaw shifting, Aaron considered.  _ I don’t know.  _ “Do you?” 

Silence followed. Neither of them had an answer. “Do you know why you’re here?” Gideon asked, eyes flicking up to the side of Aaron’s face.

“Don’t profile me, Jason.” 

“Oh, please, I haven’t had practice in so long.”

Aaron ground out, “The BAU has open arms if you miss it so much.” 

“I’m flattered. But serial killers are monotonous. Every one of them has the same issues. Your dick doesn’t work; you blame your mother and kill women who look like her.” Gideon took a long drink from his coffee mug. “Regular people are so much more interesting to profile. Have you realized that?” Aaron grunted. He barely heard Gideon’s words, and the monosyllabic acknowledgement indicated that. 

His mind churned with thoughts of Reid.  _ I know where he’s going, but I don’t know why. _ A chill passed across his chest. Last night, he had had a nightmare, not the first of its kind but the first recurrence in quite a long time—himself plunging bare hands into the soft, upturned, chilly soil of a shallow grave and pulling Reid’s body from it, dragging his corpse onto the solid, frozen earth and dropping it there. He righted his body over Reid’s and slammed his palms into his sternum again and again, too desperate and frightened to keep count. He pressed breaths into his mouth. Somewhere behind him, JJ’s voice shivered into a sob, “ _ This is all my fault, _ ” and Gideon knelt beside him, tears rolling down his cheeks as he studied Reid’s too-still body, and Morgan was shouting in the distance, “ _ Where are you, you son of a bitch? _ ” and flashes illuminated the forest as he riddled the body of Tobias Hankel with bullets in vengeance. The world moved around him. Delicate hands caressed his shoulder. Prentiss’s voice came down to him. “ _ Hotch. Hotch, he’s gone— _ ” Her voice cracked. “ _ You’re going to hurt yourself. Hotch, stop _ —”

He jerked back from under her touch. “ _ Don’t take me away from him! _ ” Prentiss reached to touch his shoulder again, to pull him back away from Reid, and he whirled upon her, shoving her off of his body—

He’d awoken sweating and sobbing into his pillow in the hotel room, violently lashing out against the covers which had wrapped around him and restricted him during the night, unable to free himself from their bounds. 

At the memory, sweat beaded on his brow. 

Gideon gently continued, “For example, you haven’t heard much of what I’ve said ever since I asked you why you’re here. You tightened your jaw and crossed your arms, so I know you’re hiding something, and you shut down from the conversation.” Aaron’s eyes closed. He should’ve known better than to come here. Gideon was  _ not _ worth the cup of lukewarm coffee. “Haley always said you preferred to shut down before you would discuss anything that made you uncomfortable.”

“What would you like me to say?”  _ He doesn’t work for the bureau anymore. I could deck him and not lose my job. _ Aaron didn’t believe in resorting to violence where it was unwarranted. He had promised himself he wouldn’t become his father. But god, it was easy to see how people became like his father when he was standing here with Gideon trying to press all of his buttons to see which ones made him tick.  _ Why does Reid like this guy? _

“I just want you to be honest. Maybe not with me, but at least with yourself.” 

“I don’t have anything to gain from honesty, Jason. Honesty isn’t going to make things right.” What would honesty do? Make the dreams go away? Make him less lonely? Erase all of the barriers in the bureau which barred him from courting Reid? Honesty would do none of those things. “I need to make sure he’s alright. That’s why I’m here. He left under unusual circumstances, and the team is worried about him, with his history. If I hadn’t come, they would’ve sent someone else.” 

“But you did come.” 

Aaron picked at his fingernails. Yes, he had come. “I wanted to get the chance to talk to him before everyone else.” He didn’t know  _ why _ exactly, except that some part of him planned on being incredibly selfish… for, as much as Gideon touted  _ honesty, _ some part of Aaron wanted to be  _ honest _ with Reid. “You want to talk about honesty? How honest should I be with him?”

Gideon raised his eyebrows. “He’s thirty years old, and he’s never had a relationship. I think it would be good for him to know he’s desirable to someone, anyone, even if it weren’t mutual.” 

Lifting his dark gaze back to Gideon, Aaron challenged, “But it  _ is. _ ” If it weren’t, things wouldn’t have been so complicated. It would’ve been easy for one of them to ignore his feelings, or for a single proclamation of love to go overlooked in the long term while they continued to work together on the team. “How good do you think it will feel for him to hear that he  _ would be _ desirable, if it weren’t for a mouth full of fences to follow?”

“I’ve yet to see a fence the BAU couldn’t jump.”

“You’re not seriously suggesting I fraternize with my  _ employee, _ who is also ten years my junior.” 

Shrugging, Gideon wore his usual frown. “Spencer has been surrounded by people older than him his whole life. I would expect nothing less from his romantic partnership.” He turned, facing out the kitchen window, where Canary frolicked in the mud puddle she had created in the garden. “As for workplace fraternization, it has been done before.” 

“One or both of us would be reassigned. I can’t do that to the team.”

“Hotch, it’s a goddamn  _ job. _ There will be another one where this one came from. For god’s sake, Spencer could teach in any university in this damn country. Either of you could work in any unit in the bureau or would have a great shot at making the CIA or Interpol. You  _ know _ that. Is that seriously all that’s stopping you?”

Aaron looked away. “No.” Gideon’s shadow fell across the floor, blotting out the light from dancing on the tiles, and Aaron watched the way it moved as Gideon turned his head to look at him. “I promised Haley I wouldn’t do this to anyone else. I wouldn’t hurt someone else the way I hurt her.” Aaron put his coffee mug down on the countertop. The bitterness suddenly didn’t comfort him as much as he wanted it to. It burned in his sore throat from where he had awoken sobbing raggedly into his pillow. “And even if all of the fences were burned down, my answer would still be no. I owe it to her.” 

Gideon narrowed his eyes. “You owe it to her to punish yourself with a life of celibacy? I don’t think that’s what Haley would’ve wanted for you.” 

Biting the tip of his tongue, Aaron wondered about which words he could say next. He thought these words  _ often _ , but he hadn’t spoken them aloud before, not to anyone. “Just because she wouldn’t have wanted it doesn’t mean it’s not what I deserve.” Gideon watched him mutely, his shadow still turned to the side, facing Aaron’s side profile. He watched the dark blots where no sunlight met the tile floor of the kitchen. “I made a mistake. She paid for it with her life. It only makes sense that I spend the rest of mine atoning for it.” 

A muted puff of breath left Gideon’s nose, almost like a laugh, and Aaron lifted his head to look at Gideon, eyebrows quirking together as he wondered what on  _ earth _ Gideon could find funny about this. The sunlight filtering through the window, green-tinted from all of the life outside, glinted upon Gideon’s face. His crinkled eyes held a sad variety of ironic mirth. “Your Catholic is showing, Aaron,” Gideon said patiently. 

Aaron raised his eyebrows. A tiny smile cracked his facade. “I suppose it is.” 

“Have you gone to confession?” 

Shaking his head, Aaron reached for his coffee again, taking a drink from it. He needed the heat to ground him. He couldn’t  _ believe _ he was talking about this at all—much less with Gideon of all people. “My father believed in violent penance in exchange for confession. I decided I could learn to make amends without guidance.” 

“Have you?” 

_ Have I? _ Had he ever made any amends successfully? Gideon was right, straight from Haley’s mouth—he shut down when things made him uncomfortable or became overwhelming. He never faced intrapersonal conflict head on because he feared becoming his father; he feared knowing anger much like his father’s rested in his bones and waited for its opportunity to strike. He feared knowing that when it did strike, it would strike someone he loved, would break a bond irreparably, and would haunt him forever knowing he did the one thing he promised himself he wouldn’t do—become his father. “I’m still working on it.” 

Aaron turned, allowing his face to enter the slant of sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. It warmed his face. Gideon’s eyes darted to his. “I may not know much about Catholicism, but we could hold confession right now if you wanted to.”

Aaron snorted a silent, derisive laugh. “Nice try. I’m not Spencer.” 

“Thought I’d offer.” With his face bathed in sunlight and the light blinding his eyes, Aaron felt a little lighter. Gideon patted the back of his hand where it rested on the countertop. “I know your father made you coauthor the Catholic’s guide to self-flagellation. And I know it’s hard to unlearn all of that, even in a lifetime. But… you  _ do _ deserve to be happy. And so does Spencer.” 

“What makes you think we’d make each other happy? We don’t have anything in common.” 

“Eight years of friendship is a good start,” Gideon reminded him gently. “You’ve been through the toughest parts of your lives together.” 

“I think I would only be bad for him.” Gideon waited in silence for him to explain. “I’m too angry. Too stern. If we kept working together, I’d be harder on him to avoid showing favoritism. He wouldn’t understand—”

“Spencer will understand anything you take the time to explain to him.” 

Something inside of Aaron winced, his stomach reeling in pain. “Some things are too difficult for me to explain.” He wasn’t  _ good _ at talking about his feelings; that was part of what had ended his marriage with Haley. And Spencer, Spencer talked about everything—Spencer hardly ever stopped talking. His voice filled the silence of Aaron’s darkest hours and brought him comfort, a balm on a festering burn. But he would soon grow frustrated with Aaron's reticence in his personal life. 

_ What do I think I’m doing? _ He hadn’t even spoken with Spencer—Reid—yet. He had no reason to consider a relationship between the two of them when it would never, could never, logically happen. Reid deserved happiness, but he wouldn’t find that with Aaron, and Aaron needed to spend his time working on making amends to Haley and raising Jack. Reid didn’t want Aaron with all of his strings attached. 

“I’m not making any promises,” Gideon said. “You may be right. But you won’t know unless you find out.”

“It’s safer  _ not _ to find out.”

“When have you ever gone for what’s safer?” 

“Whenever it concerns my team.”

“So you’re worried about what they would think?” 

“It’s one of several dozen worries I have, and all of them tell me pursuing a relationship with Reid is a bad idea.” 

Gideon appraised him in the sunlight. “Look at your worries. Which one is the biggest?”

“That I would hurt him the way I hurt Haley.” 

“Spencer’s a grown man. He can take it.” 

_ I don’t know if I can take it. _ If their relationship went sour, work would become awkward. One of them would either be transferred against his will or volunteer to avoid the other—the BAU would crumble. Reid would forever remember his first relationship as the one with his  _ boss _ who had known him since he was a teenager. He would have a broken heart, and so would Aaron—as if Aaron’s heart could really break much more than it already had. If he ignored these feelings now, they could continue to operate as normal; if he acted upon them, he risked upturning life as he knew it. “I don’t want to.” 

Gideon’s eyes were mellow. “But you do want to.” 

“Why do you have so much invested in this?”

“I want Spencer to be happy. I want you to be happy.” 

Aaron raised his eyebrows, incredulous. “You didn’t seem all that concerned with Spencer’s happiness when you abandoned him in the form of a letter just like his father did,” he reminded Gideon sharply. Gideon flinched at the reprimand. “You didn’t care about his happiness when he was spiraling into addiction and wasn’t able to get control of himself and he needed someone. You haven’t cared about his happiness in years—nor do I think you care about mine.” Gideon averted his eyes. “Did you even know Spencer was sober before he told you?” 

“No.” 

Aaron finished his coffee. The mug clinked on the countertop. “You want me to get together with Spencer so you can say you played the matchmaker and it will make you look better in his eyes. It will make you feel like you didn’t desert him just when he needed you the most. It will make you think you’ve made up for how betrayed he felt.” He crossed his arms, and so did Gideon. “If you want to make it up to Spencer, you need to find another way. Neither of us is going to be your pawn. Whatever happens between us, it’ll be because of what  _ we _ decide, not because of any influence you had.” 

Though Gideon had mirrored his defensive posture, he relaxed, a downtrodden look crossing his face. “You’re right.” He braced both of his hands against the countertop, staring down at the grout. “I need to find a way to ask his forgiveness.” 

“His forgiveness?” Aaron repeated. Gideon’s eyes flicked back up to him. “Reid realized he thought he was gay and then made a cross country trip to see two people. He puts you on the same level he puts his mother.” It infuriated Aaron. Gideon had hurt Reid  _ so badly _ , and yet Reid still placed him on a pedestal, if a little more dubiously than before, to ask his advice and seek his guidance. 

“You don’t like that.” 

“You didn’t see how he was when you left. If you had, you’d be a lot angrier at yourself.”

“I am angry at myself. He deserved better.” Gideon’s short thumbnail dug into the grout between the tiles of his countertop. “Maybe when I say I need to ask his forgiveness, I mean I actually need to find a way to forgive myself.” 

Aaron puffed a short breath from his nose, tilting his head back. “Jason, your Jewish is showing.” 

Swatting at him, Gideon rolled his eyes. “Touche.” He turned away from the window. “If you’re going to make it before nightfall, you should leave soon. It’s a drive back to Omaha, then a two and a half hour flight.” He was right; Aaron nodded in agreement. “Can I profile the decision you’re going to make?”

“If you’re asking, it means you already have.” 

He didn’t want to hear Gideon’s answer, but Gideon didn’t ask again. “You’re going to indulge yourself, and then you’re going to feel incredibly guilty about it. How Spencer reacts and how he feels will determine how you move forward.” Aaron set his jaw, but he couldn’t argue. Some part of him had already made up his mind, had made it up from the moment Diana Reid had looked at him and told him in not so many words that Reid was gay. “You can brush this off if you like, but you care about him immensely. You’d do anything to protect him.” His gaze was soft. “You know he doesn’t need protecting from you, right?” 

“He doesn’t, but you might.” 

Gideon smiled. “Take care of him, please, Aaron.” Gideon patted him on the shoulder. 

He refused to make a promise he couldn’t keep. “I’ll try my best.” Heart sinking into the soles of his feet, Aaron headed for the front door, bidding Gideon a quiet farewell. He replaced his shoes. Gideon called his dog so she came to him, eager to play with her toys, and Aaron made his escape while she was distracted, climbing back into the Suburban and driving away. He checked his watch.  _ Long time til I’ll reach Atlanta. _ Once again, Reid had the head start. But somehow, part of Aaron trusted Reid would give him enough time to catch up this time. 

…

Ancient, toppled headstones littered the graveyard in the orange, early evening light of the Marshall Parish cemetery. No trails marked aisles between graves; only one body had been buried here in recent years, and it was twenty yards south of the rest of the graveyard. Most of the stones had faded with time, now completely illegible. Some had collapsed. Some had cracked down the middle. One cross leaned sideways, its top pointing right at Spencer’s chest. 

Spencer did not spook easily, but chills ran down his spine, and his mouth dried. He licked his lips. His feet fell among the dead. There were many crunchy leaves here, but he couldn’t enjoy the sensation of their crackling while he swept the landscape in front of him.  _ This place stinks. _ The ghost of the stench of burning fish would forever haunt this place; it would forever haunt Spencer in his dreams. He could remember this place vividly—not the sight, for it had been too dark, but the emotions twirling in the pit of his stomach and the smell of the humid breeze moving through the trees. 

The shack had begun to cave in on itself, the roof sinking in and the floor collapsed. Spencer stood at the foot of the porch, but as he placed one shoe on the lowest step, it buckled beneath his weight. There was no way to go inside.  _ Probably for the best, _ he acknowledged. He didn’t know what he expected to find in there, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. 

Not far from the shack, the newest headstone stood. The weather had not yet damaged it. The public, however, had. Spray paint covered the smooth stone surface,  _ Burn in hell, motherfucker; hope you suffered, cocksucker; DIE FAG, _ and other insults littering the finish. Spencer swallowed hard at the sight of the vandalism. He knew the public had found the grave—he had heard about it from JJ—and he had expected they would lash out. They had every right to. 

Beneath the layers of vandalism, the tombstone had a simple engravement: 

_ Tobias Hankel _

_ 1977-2007 _

_ Doting Son _

Spencer’s throat felt tight. It had been such a hasty decision he had made when he overheard the coroner tell Gideon on the phone that there was no next of kin for the two Hankel bodies. He’d pretended to be sleeping in the hospital bed when he’d heard it. 

But the aftermath of his actions had haunted him. 

_ Spencer was so high, he could barely move. He hunkered over his desk in the bullpen, pencil in his shaking hand, eyes not focusing on the paper in front of him. He was so tired. Being tired brought him euphoria—he couldn’t relieve his anxiety any other way. He needed to nap. His hand kept on twitching, refusing to settle with the pencil, until he allowed it to fall from his grip.  _

_ “Spence!” JJ’s voice echoed through his mind, reverberating like they were inside a cave. His whole life, Spencer had never known silence in his mind. The Dilaudid made everything quiet down… He adored the peace it brought. “Spence, you are not gonna believe this!” She was holding something up in front of him. He lifted his head to look at it— _ too fast, too fast, _ he cautioned himself, and his head spun. The orthostatic hypotension from the Dilaudid was one of the side effects, but he  _ needed  _ it, so he kept telling himself. He blinked a few times at the newspaper, but his eyes wouldn’t focus on it. “Well?” _

_ He gulped. “What?” he asked in a small, dry voice. She looked gray and muted and dark through his eyes. “What’s wrong?” _

_ She scowled. “Some bastard is paying to bury that creep! An ‘anonymous donor—’” She put air quotes around the words as she spoke. “He’s agreed to pay for his burial in full! After everything he did, to those people, to you—Aren’t you mad?”  _

Right, mad, I should be mad. _ Spencer nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m mad.”  _

_ “If those victims’ families don’t destroy it, I might just do it myself.” _

_ Spencer couldn’t think of anything else to say, so it was good when Emily approached from behind. “JJ, calm down. We’re FBI agents, not grave robbers.”  _

_ “After what he did to Spence? I’d smash the headstone myself, given the opportunity.”  _

_ “JJ.” Spencer realized Emily was looking at him in that telling way, the way two parents exchanged a glance over a child, communicating silently. With a huff, JJ stormed off. Emily pulled up a rolling chair beside Spencer. He avoided her gaze. “Are you okay?”  _

_ He exhaled. His breathing was too slow. The world kept spinning around and around and around. “No.” The honest answer surprised him. Up until now, he had been very good at lying to everyone. Why tell Emily the truth? He barely knew her. He had no reason to trust she wouldn’t rat him out to Hotch or Gideon or worse, go to Strauss and have the whole team punished for his shortcomings and inadequacies. He licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He was thirsty.  _

_ Emily pushed a cup into his hand. Remembering the process—lifting it to his lips, swallowing—was difficult, but he managed. “Are you going to tell her it was you?”  _

_ Spencer shook his head. “You saw how she acted…” JJ was his best friend, but he couldn’t tell her the truth. Not about that, anyway. He wrung his hands loosely in front of himself. His thoughts were so slow and groggy. The silence and the peace were relieving, but it was unnerving to try to hold a conversation without everything in his head ticking and rotating and vibrating and hearing the damn electronic whines from the television and the microwave.  _ Is this how everyone else sees the world all the time?  _ Spencer wondered. “She’d freak out if she knew.”  _

_ Emily hesitated. “Does anybody know?” Spencer shook his head, closing his eyes to make the dizziness abate. He fumbled around on the desk in front of him and found his sunglasses, putting them on. “I won’t say anything,” she promised.  _

_ “Thanks,” he mumbled. _

_ “Is there anything I can do to help? Drive you somewhere, maybe?” _

She knows,  _ Spencer realized. His heart fluttered into a panic in his chest, but his lungs refused to cooperate. They didn’t want to take a terrified gasp of breath. “I don’t need your help, Emily.” Her too-kind eyes were still on him, so he shoved back away from his desk and plunged his hands deep into his pockets, bag over his shoulder. With each step, he heard the clink of vials inside. He wondered if anyone else heard them, too.  _

The breeze tousled Spencer’s hair. He lifted his head, the golden sunset bathing his face in warmth, and he watched as the light glinted off of the approaching vehicle—a black Chevy Suburban. Part of Spencer was surprised Hotch had gotten the vehicle even though they weren’t working a case and he had to pay out of pocket for the rental; part of him wasn’t at all surprised, knowing how much Hotch liked his stoic, dark SUV. When Hotch spotted him, he parked the Suburban and turned it off, climbing out of it in his tailored suit. 

The sunlight cast a long shadow behind him and enraptured him in a heavenly halo. Spencer’s throat bobbed as he gulped. It occurred to him now that he hadn’t actually  _ seen _ Hotch since he’d made the decision to do this, since he’d decided his feelings were real and were worth discovering. Illuminated by the setting sun through the copse of trees, Hotch was  _ beautiful. _

The leaves crunched under his black leather shoes. Each crunch brought him closer to Spencer. A weight lifted from Spencer’s shoulders; Hotch was here. He felt safe. He appreciated the crunching sound of the leaves now. Hotch stopped just a pace away from him, sweeping Spencer with his eyes. “You don’t look surprised.” 

“Gideon called me and told me you were coming.” 

Hotch inclined his eyebrows. “Right.” His arms hung at his side. Spencer stared at his hands to avoid looking him in the eye.  _ How much does he know? _ he wondered. Hotch had visited his mom and Gideon; they must have told him everything. Just the thought made him itchy on the inside. “Where’s your vehicle?”

“I didn’t drive.” 

Hotch’s brow furrowed. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.” 

Spencer cracked a small smile. “I, uh, I realized I’ve always wanted to ride in the back of a pickup truck. I didn’t do that when I was a kid because I knew the statistics about falling out and dying, and I didn’t want to go that way, but I realized I’ve always kind of wanted to do it anyway.”

“So?”

“I gave a ten dollar bill to an old cowboy for him to let me ride in the bed of his truck and drop me off here.” 

Hotch breathed a quiet laugh through his nose, a grin splintering his facade. “You’re lucky I didn’t have a flat tire. You would’ve been stuck here all night.” 

“Statistically, it’s fairly unlikely a rental car would get a flat tire, especially one as reliable as a Suburban.” 

“My first flight caught fire on my way to Las Vegas. Statistics haven’t been on my side recently.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “It caught fire?” he repeated, and Hotch nodded. “That’s the worst luck ever. The odds of any flight going down on a given day are one to five point four million—the odds of actually  _ dying _ from a plane crash are even slimmer. You’re more likely to be struck by lightning or killed by a shark than you are to be involved in a plane crash. Riding in a car is more than one hundred times more dangerous—so is catching the flu.” Spencer paused, realizing he was rambling and Hotch was doing nothing to stop him. “Are you okay?” he asked, softer now.  _ I probably should’ve asked that first.  _ He couldn’t eat his words. 

Again, Hotch nodded. “The pilot made an emergency landing in Lake Havasu City. I’m fine.” He glanced at the headstone behind Spencer, but he didn’t acknowledge it nor the vandalism sprayed across it. “Are  _ you _ okay?” he asked. 

Whatever Gideon and his mother had told Hotch, it seemed he wanted to hear it for himself. Spencer’s jaw shifted. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I’m gay, Hotch.” 

“So I’ve heard.” The small smile on his face didn’t waver. 

Spencer hesitated. “Did you know?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.” Spencer lifted his eyes to Hotch’s face, his face sculpted by the gods and chiseled into life. He soaked in the way Hotch looked in the light of the setting sun. His eyebrows, his eyes so dark they were almost black (but the sun struck them now and revealed patterns of umber and hickory), his nose, his mouth—Spencer’s eyes lingered on his mouth, unable to tear himself away until he looked back at the ground. The birdsong carried over the cemetery. The cicadas whirred, announcing dusk as it arrived. Hotch cleared his throat. “What did Gideon say to you when he called?”

Perplexion caused Spencer to lift his head again, squinting into the light as it refracted off of his glasses. “He said, ‘Hey, Spencer, it’s Jason. Hotch is coming to find you. Don’t leave the Marshall Parish cemetery until he catches up.’” He blinked at Hotch. “Why?”

Hotch averted his eyes. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.” 

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat.  _ Oh, no, please, no. _ In all likelihood, between his mother and Gideon, one of them had spilled the beans about who he liked—and now Hotch wanted to talk about it. What if Hotch wanted him transferred to another unit? What if Hotch wanted him out of the bureau altogether? His throat and chest tightened. “Oh,” he managed. 

Hotch turned slightly, facing the same direction as Spencer. Spencer recognized this technique. It fostered intimacy through the participants facing or traveling the same direction and allowed them to avoid eye contact if they so desired. Spencer never liked eye contact, so he appreciated Hotch’s effort to keep from staring him down. They faced west, into the sun, opposite the east-facing gravestones and statues of the cemetery. “I also like men.” Hotch’s voice was low, not in shame, but in the quiet way he revealed anything about himself. Spencer leaned a little nearer to hear him better over the auditory backdrop of nature, which made it difficult to focus on the conversation. “I had a relationship with a man in college. I ended things with him, eventually, to go back to Haley. But I realized I like men and women.” 

Cautious eyes studied the side of Hotch’s face. Spencer wasn’t sure if he was meant to answer Hotch yet—and, truthfully, he didn’t know what answer Hotch wanted.  _ Congratulations, you’re bisexual, _ didn’t seem very polite, but it ran through Spencer’s head. Hotch continued, “I don’t want you to feel alone, Reid.” 

_ Oh. _ It made sense now. His heart thundered in his chest, landing like horse’s hooves galloping across a mountainous path. “Thank you,” he said. “I—I don’t. There’s JJ and Emily, too.” He wasn’t alone, and tomorrow, when he arrived back at Quantico, he would tell all of them. “I know it’s different for women than for men, but… I know I can trust the team.” And if he couldn’t trust the team, he could definitely trust HR—though he suspected if he took a step that drastic, it would probably end his career at the BAU. “You could, too, you know. Trust them.” Hotch glanced sideways at him. “If you wanted to.” Spencer stared at the ground. 

“I will if I have a reason to.”  _ A reason to? _ Spencer wanted to question, but then he realized.  _ Oh.  _ If Hotch found a man to share his life with, he would tell the team. A smidgen of jealousy smoldered inside of Spencer at the thought, but he shoved it away. Hotch shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Your mother told me it’s someone on the BAU. The one who made you realize.”

Spencer’s heart sank. “It is.” He had thought for a moment he could evade this part of the conversation, the part he didn’t want to have, but it caught up with him.  _ I should apologize. _ He didn’t know where to start. 

“I thought it was Morgan. She seemed to think otherwise.” Hotch looked at him. 

Face flushing, Spencer ducked his head, blinking over and over and keeping his eyes to the ground. “Well, it’s certainly not Rossi,” he mumbled. 

“I didn’t think it was.” 

Eyes hot, Spencer wondered if he could say anything to make this better. This time, the apology did come. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t intended on any of this happening. If he had control over it, he would stop it—but he didn’t. He couldn’t turn off his feelings. 

Hotch turned to face him directly. One large, spidery hand touched Spencer’s arm, turning his body and holding him at arm’s length. “I don’t want you to apologize.” Spencer swallowed the thickness in his throat, budding there from nervousness. He blinked quickly, trying to lighten the fear from having Hotch stare him down. But Hotch wasn’t using his domineering alpha male stare; his face was much more tender and honest and concerned now, the same face he had worn when he had lifted Spencer from this very same earth those years ago. “Don’t you think it’s odd I came all this way after you?” 

Spencer sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Not if JJ was worried enough.” 

“I went to Las Vegas because JJ was worried. But I knew from your mother you were safe. I could’ve gone back to Quantico then and left you to your devices. Why didn’t I?”

_ He’s asking me to profile him. _ Like a soldier in the center of a battlefield, he pressed his palms to the earth, feeling for landmines, praying they wouldn’t light up under his feet. Heart skipping like a rabbit, Spencer fidgeted with the hem of the pocket of his pants, rocking in the air.  _ Focus on victimology. Let behavior guide you. _ Spencer was the victim; Hotch was the unsub. “You were following me, so—if I made a big reach and quantified your behavior as that of a nonviolent stalker, I would say you found your victim through some sort of bond, real or perceived.” Brow furrowed, Spencer listened to the ticking inside of his mind, the gears turning inside. He and Hotch  _ did _ have a bond—they were colleagues of eight years, and he liked to consider them friends. But if that was the case, Spencer shared that bond with all of his teammates, and none of them were here with Hotch. “You followed me even after you knew I was safe. You did that because you’re a control freak. You don’t take anyone else’s judgment for granted. You always see for yourself.” 

“Is that why I did it?” 

That was Hotch’s behavior, but was it an unsub’s? “Somewhat, but you also did it because you wanted to make a grand gesture, which is usually indicative of the nonviolent stalker who thinks he can woo his target. So you did it because you want to express your…” Spencer drifted off. “ _ Oh. _ ” He looked at Hotch for confirmation, and he inclined his head, a verification. Hotch wasn’t good at speaking his feelings aloud, so he got Spencer to speak them for him. It was clever, but the conversation couldn’t end there. “Uh… What are we going to do about it?” 

“I don’t know.” Hotch didn’t have an answer. Apprehension filled Spencer. “What would you like to do about it?” 

_ What would I like to do about it? _ Spencer could think of a handful of answers. Some of them were fairly juvenile; others involved each of them in various stages of undress. But his answers were merely fantasy. “We can’t do anything,” he mumbled, his fingers rubbing up and down over the hem of his pockets, tracing the ridge there. “Not without one of us losing our job. Strauss would put your head on a silver platter and feed it to the director.” 

Silence stretched out from Hotch. Then, he admitted quietly, “You’re right.” His voice was so  _ disappointed. _ Something broke inside of Spencer. The feeling was back, the same heartbroken feeling which had initially led him on this journey, the feeling of being shattered and having the glass imbed inside of him. Spencer couldn’t live with that feeling inside of him; he couldn’t leave Hotch’s voice so disappointed, the same way he had sounded when he asked Spencer about his divorce. 

He lifted his eyes to Hotch’s face, gazing into his eyes in spite of the discomfort which pulsed through him with it.  _ Should I? _ He licked his lips. The sunset grew ever darker, crimson spreading across the sky, diffusing pink light across their faces. Hotch held his gaze. Spencer kept blinking. 

An owl hooted overhead, a premature riser for the hour. Spencer searched the treetops for it, but he couldn’t find it. He wondered if it was a great horned owl rising before the sun finished its trek or if another, rarer, crepuscular species lurked somewhere above them. “Reid?” 

Jerking his head back down to Hotch, Spencer’s eyes widened at his nearness—no longer an arm’s length separating them, now just a hair’s breadth, and Hotch’s breath lingered upon his cheeks, and a large hand swept his messy, tangled hair back out of his eyes. Their eyes met, but Hotch didn’t finish the action; he lingered, waiting. He would do nothing without Spencer’s permission. 

Spencer leaned forward. Two inches, maybe less, and their lips connected. His stomach erupted into a hive of bees, threatening to burst out of him. His hand floated up to Hotch’s face, caressing his cheek. A slight stubble rubbed against his palm.  _ I like that. _ Like sandpaper, but softer and less grating. Spencer closed his eyes—all of the flashing lights around him were distracting. The cicadas hummed, but he could also hear Hotch’s breath and the rustle of his suit as his body moved, one arm wrapping around Spencer’s body to pull him nearer, one hand tangling in his hair. Spencer’s hands were not as bold, but he pressed his mouth eagerly into the kiss, relishing in it, in the taste, in the smell of Hotch’s cologne, in the sensation. 

Whatever he thought a kiss was supposed to be, whatever he had experienced that night with Lila Archer in the pool, this blew it out of the water. Lila Archer, professional actress, couldn’t hold a candle to Hotch. 

Gently, Hotch broke the kiss, and Spencer’s eyes fluttered open. Stars speckled his vision as his eyes adjusted. Spencer licked his lips. Would it be rude to put on chapstick right now? If they were going to do this again, he wanted to be prepared. Sore lips always bothered him. He wondered if it was appropriate to ask. Hotch’s obsidian eyes glimmered with a thousand untapped emotions. He stroked Spencer’s cheek.  _ That feels nice. _

But the sky grew darker. They couldn’t stand out here forever. Spencer’s eyes dropped to the earth. “I guess we should go back home.” He had nothing else to accomplish. 

Hotch’s hand dropped from his face. “Right.” 

“Um, my—my hotel room has two beds… if you’d like to stay.” Spencer had never shared a room with Hotch before; he had always shared with JJ or with Morgan. 

“Will we need two beds?” 

_ I hope not. _ “That’s your call.” 

“Let’s decide when we get there.” Hotch took the keys out of his pocket. Restless anticipation buzzed through Spencer. As he hopped into the Suburban, he swore he floated with joy. Hotch sat beside him, buckling his seatbelt, and his hand brushed Spencer’s knee, stilling it from anxiously pounding the floorboards. Spencer dipped his head in sheepish thanks. Then, Hotch cranked the SUV, and they drove away. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Intimacy, as I am using it, is sharing my reality with you.” -Keith Miller

…

The cold shower water ran in rivulets down Spencer’s body. Shivering and shriveled from the chill, he turned off the faucet and drew back the sliding glass door, stepping onto a towel on the floor and reaching for another to dry himself. The mirror hadn’t fogged up. Without his glasses, the image of his reflection was blurred, but he looked at himself in it, hair wet and hanging in limp curtains, lips blue and trembling, his naked body all frail and thin. Clear streams of water trickled from his person. He swathed them off with the soft white towel provided by the hotel. 

His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing through his ears. On the other side of that bathroom door, Hotch waited for him, and he had  _ no idea _ what Hotch expected to happen. Spencer looked down at his body. The thought of Hotch seeing him like this filled him with shame. Outside of medical contexts, the only people who had ever seen him naked were bullies. 

He had let Hotch shower first, trying to stall and think of a plan, and the hotel had depleted all of its hot water in a single shower. Hotch had warned him to wait. He hadn’t listened. Now he was blue-lipped and quivering from the coldness of the water. 

Spencer reached for his glasses, pushing them onto his face, and turned his back to the mirror. He donned his briefs and his flannel pajama bottoms, and then he buttoned up a long-sleeved flannel pajama top. He dried his feet carefully and pulled on long, fuzzy, mismatched socks. He picked up everything soiled and tidied up the bathroom, adjusting the towels and washcloths so they were even lengths, flipping around the roll of toilet paper so it faced the right way. Then, swallowing his fear, he stepped out of the bathroom and into the room. 

The silence struck him—it was quieter than it had been when he left the room. His eyes darted down to the television. The plug dangled behind it, no longer in the wall. “You unplugged the TV.” 

Hotch lifted his gaze to Spencer from where he had stared at his phone. “I figured the sound was bothering you.” He stretched out, all long and lanky, on the bed—he wore basketball shorts and an old T-shirt as pajamas. His hair was drying from the shower. The veins and muscles in his arms stood out in the lamplight. He had such large feet, just like his hands, which made the phone in his hand seem minuscule. 

Spencer dropped the soiled towels and washcloths into the hamper and took his clothes to his suitcase. “It was. Thanks.” A shiver passed through his body. He sat on the edge of the other bed, the one he had slept in the night before; he’d made it before he left this morning, so he drew the covers back and picked up his phone where he had left it to charge. He had a stream of new text messages. He hadn’t answered any messages or calls since he’d left, but… He decided to open them, just to make sure. 

P. Garcia: _Baby boy!! Hotch says he found you!!_ 💐🌸🌺 _He says you guys are coming home tomorrow. Stay safe!_

Spencer smiled at the text, but he didn’t answer it yet; instead, he checked his other unopened conversations.

E. Prentiss:  _ Pen says Hotch found you. Pls answer JJ’s texts. She is worried sick.  _

Obediently, Spencer opened his conversation with JJ. 

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Spence, I’m so worried about you, please answer me when you get the chance. Nobody has heard from you except Garcia, you don’t have to take my calls just let me know you’re safe. _

📕Spence📘:  _ I’m safe. I’m with Hotch. I’m sorry I worried you. I’m coming home tomorrow. I need to talk to you in person. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ OMG! I’m so glad you’re okay. I was so worried. Pen says you have news. What kind of news? Is it bad? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Not bad. Just news _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Does Hotch know? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Yeah.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Okay. Be safe out there. I love you Spence _

📕Spence📘: _ I love you too _

Staring at the blue lit screen, even just for that short period of time, caused pain to erupt behind Spencer’s eyes. He grimaced, massaging his sinuses above his eyes. He put the phone face down and pressed and held the side button until he knew it had turned off. He couldn’t look at it any longer. Sliding his index fingers under the nosepiece of his glasses, he pressed on the bridge of his nose and waited for the pain to abate. There was nothing the doctors could do. The first doctor had offered him a trial of antipsychotics; he’d rejected it, only for the second to offer analgesics. There appeared no other medical path for migraines, only pain relief and crazy relief. Spencer couldn’t accept pain relief and refused to believe he needed crazy relief. If he ever needed an antipsychotic, it would not be because of migraine headaches. 

He’d done as much research as he could do. Nothing stood out to him. He’d reached out to doctors across the country—even a somewhat eccentric geneticist who insisted on talking to him from a payphone (and Spencer knew calling her eccentric from him was the pot calling the kettle black, but he still thought it was odd how she talked about the images he had forwarded her of his MRI). None of them had any answers or found any abnormalities in his MRI. 

Thinking about it made the headache worse. He had to take his mind off of it. First, he thought of the Hodge conjecture, but his mind was unclear, perhaps because he could hear Hotch’s breathing across the room. He needed something simpler… so he started to recite pi. 

_ Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine… _ Spencer had memorized pi to more than one million spaces and had helped expand the analysis of it during his first doctorate study. Eventually, he’d grown bored with it; there were far more interesting conjectures to solve in mathematics than pi, which was already effective in most practical applications of math without any further discovery. 

Spencer kept shivering. The chill from the shower hadn’t left him yet. “Reid.” He looked up at Hotch. “You alright?” 

Shifting his jaw, Spencer nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I just—I’m getting a headache.” 

Hotch drew back the covers on the bed beside him, patting the mattress in invitation. “Come here.” Blinking in surprise, Spencer got up, shuffling across the carpeted space between the two beds, and slipped between the sheets beside Hotch. Hotch pulled the blanket up around him, not tucking him in too tightly, and then he got out of bed. He turned off the lights and drew the curtains closed, twisting the blinds so no light shone in from the outside. Then he returned to Spencer’s side, sitting on top of the blankets rather than beneath them with him. Spencer’s eyes watched him in the darkness, squinting up at him to make out his silhouette from the shadows. With gingerly fingers, Hotch lifted Spencer’s glasses from his nose, careful not to pull on his ears as he removed them from his face. He folded them and reached across Spencer to place them on the nightstand. “Close your eyes.” 

Spencer obeyed, placing his head on one of the plush pillows. Spencer  _ hated _ hotel pillows. He had one pillow he liked; he’d had it since he was a kid. It was just firm enough and always cool to the touch, and he liked to rub his arm across the casing for some stimulation as he was falling asleep. Along with his weighted blanket, it helped a lot. But when he had brought it with him on his first case eight years ago, Morgan had teased him for it—he’d never packed it again and instead had suffered through many deplorable foam pillows. 

Beside him, Hotch’s breaths rose and fell. Spencer counted them as they passed. Hotch was breathing more quickly than usual, and his body was stiff; his movement didn’t ripple the bed like Spencer would’ve expected.  _ He’s afraid of disturbing me. _ It struck Spencer as very odd, the way Hotch handled him like a piece of broken glass, touching only in very specific places like he would be sliced open if he went astray.  _ Why? _ Spencer wondered. He couldn’t do anything to harm Hotch. Even if he  _ could _ , he wouldn’t. 

Hotch shifted, rolling onto his side, facing Spencer. His breath, cool from the distance between them, barely teased the edges of Spencer’s cheeks. Goosebumps lifted on Spencer’s neck at the sensation. How long had it been since another person was this close to him? When Will and JJ had separated, JJ had spent a few nights with him at his apartment, and they had shared his bed, but… well, it was  _ different _ . She was his  _ best friend, _ and he was  _ gay _ . He adored JJ, but nothing about her could ever make his heart skip like Hotch did. Those bees kept on buzzing in his chest and abdomen, thrashing, seeking their way out. His face and hands felt both cold and hot at the same time with nervousness, but it was a good nervousness. His foot moved in circles on the cool fitted sheet of the bed, seeking the sensation of fabric against his skin. 

Hotch’s voice broke the silence, a whisper now. “Can I touch your hair?” 

_ He asked. _ Spencer hadn’t imagined Hotch ever  _ asked _ for much. He had expected Hotch to take whatever he wanted. He nodded. Hotch had told him to close his eyes, so he didn’t open them, but he waited with bated breath and listened for the sound of Hotch lifting his arm. Long fingers brushed the very top of his hair, like a child’s tentative hand petting an unfamiliar cat. Then his fingers curled into Spencer’s hair, sinking deeper, all the way against his scalp. 

The bed jostled more as Hotch settled beside him. He lay on the mattress, head on the pillow, hand tangled in Spencer’s hair. His bitten fingernails scraped against Spencer’s scalp. The sensation sent pleasant chills down Spencer’s spine. He smiled, leaning into the touch. Hotch’s breath relaxed at his smile; it eased some of the tension in his body, letting him melt into the bed. “Do you like that?” 

“Yeah. Sensory bliss.” 

“What other things are sensory bliss?”

Spencer licked his lips. “Just tactile, or in general?”

“In general.” 

He considered. His life had more sensory aversions than affections, but there still were enough for him to name them. “Um… Cool fabrics, some textures—not anything itchy—crunchy leaves, crunchy vegetables, Kraft macaroni and cheese, dinosaur nuggets, the sound of the rain, piano solos and concertos, old jazz, the smell of books…” He drifted off, thinking about it, and then he added quietly, “The smell of your cologne.” 

Opening one eyelid a little, Spencer watched as Hotch’s smile grew. Spencer had scarcely ever seen him smile so much. “What about the opposite?” 

Spencer’s eyes darted down to the slim space between them. Hotch kept carding his fingers through his hair.  _ This is so nice… _ He could have drifted off to sleep like this, curled under the blankets while Hotch petted him like a happy cat, but he also wanted to be awake to enjoy it.  _ What is this? _ He had a lot of questions, but asking them would ruin the moment, so he bit his tongue on them. “I have a lot more sensory aversions,” he admitted. “The sound electronics make when you turn them on, the sound of older fluorescent lights, the sound of fans running, the sound of motors working—say, in refrigerators—uh, most pop music, screens lit with blue light, birds really early in the morning. Wool and some synthetic fabrics, anything sticky, powdery, or wet to the touch. Slimy things in food, cooked onions, cooked peppers, or biting into a whole tomato instead of slicing it.” 

“So you’re the reason Rossi keeps the frozen chicken nuggets and instant macaroni and cheese in his kitchen.” 

Spencer smiled, breathing a laugh. “He once told me I was shortening his lifespan by making him swallow his pride at the supermarket.”

In the dim light, Hotch was barely visible to him, but the outline of his face was still beautiful to Spencer.  _ This has to end.  _ Ultimately, it would end, Spencer knew. Tonight, they were alone, and no one knew, but tomorrow, they would go home, and this wouldn’t happen again.  _ That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy tonight. _ He would enjoy tonight, being here with Hotch like this, more vulnerable than he had been with anyone in a very long time, and tomorrow, they would just be friends and coworkers again, and this would be a memory. 

Spencer had an eidetic memory. He was sure he would watch this one over and over again. Hotch’s hand moved from Spencer’s head, strolling down his temple and cupping his cheek. “Kiss me again?” Spencer asked, and Hotch did, kissing him gently and slowly.  _ Sensory bliss, that’s where this goes. _ Spencer’s hand reached for Hotch, feeling his short, damp hair. He melted into the kiss. Hotch’s arms enveloped him; they were so  _ strong. _

Mouth moving against his, Spencer followed the mellow guidance of Hotch’s lips, his jaw opening, and tentatively, Hotch slipped his tongue inside. Spencer gasped a tiny sound, a keening. Tame hands tugged on his hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to give him the blissful stimulus on his scalp he craved. He pressed his body up against Hotch’s through the cover. The tongue inside of his mouth… It tickled, but in a good way, one of those odd sensations he wouldn’t have expected himself to like, but now that he had experienced it, he knew he wouldn’t let it go. His eyes pressed closed, and he focused on the sensation, the tickling in his mouth, the hand in his hair, the sound of Hotch’s gasps and grunts—

Breathless, Hotch withdrew, and Spencer’s eyes fluttered open to look at him in the dark. He couldn’t see enough to verify, but in his gut, he sensed Hotch felt conflicted.  _ We should talk about it. _ He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to ruin being so close together by telling each other it would never happen again. He  _ knew _ it would never happen again, so he wanted to enjoy it while he could. 

A shrill whine pierced the air. Spencer winced, sinking his head into his shoulders like a turtle into its shell, trying to escape the excruciating hum. He covered his ears with his hands. “Spencer—” Hotch grimaced as he looked up at the wall separating their room from the next. “They turned on their television, didn’t they?” 

Spencer nodded. His jaw clenched. A CRT television—who even  _ used _ CRT televisions anymore?  _ It’s the twenty-first century! _ It was his punishment for choosing an old, cheap hotel instead of something higher class. “Can’t you hear it?” 

Hotch shook his head. “I can’t hear high frequencies anymore.” 

_ Right. _ The bombing had left Hotch with permanent hearing loss. “Is it bad that I’m jealous?” Spencer asked through gritted teeth. 

Laughter shook the bed. “Come here.” Hotch slipped under the covers with Spencer. He lifted the heavy blankets up over their heads and tucked them in. Then, he collected Spencer into his arms, placing his cheek right over the left side of his chest. He used his left hand to cover Spencer’s, adding another layer of protection to his ear. “Better?” Hotch’s voice rumbled through his chest, low and echoing. His heart pulsed,  _ lub dub lub dub lub dub, _ and Spencer listened closely to it. He gave a slow nod into Hotch’s chest. “Good.” Every breath Hotch took whistled inside of him, like the wind of a storm. Spencer could hear his own heartbeat in his wrist where it pressed to his other ear. 

Taking slow, deep breaths, he tried to calm the high-speed throbbing of his heart. He listened to Hotch’s and imagined his own mirroring it.  _ Lub dub lub dub lub dub—whoosh, whoosh—lub dub lub dub lub dub—whoosh, whoosh. _ He breathed when Hotch did and focused on calming himself. His foot drew circles on the cool fitted sheet of the bed. Above the sound of Hotch’s body and his own, the hum still pushed through, but it was more bearable than before. “Hotch?” 

“Aaron,” Hotch corrected. 

Spencer’s brow furrowed. He didn’t think he had ever called Hotch by his given name before, not in front of him. But it made sense, he supposed; Hotch was his work moniker, and whatever they were doing right now, it  _ definitely _ wasn’t work. “Aaron,” Spencer amended quietly. “Will you talk?” 

The rumbling of his voice through his chest muted the television’s buzz through the wall. “Talk about what?” 

“Anything. Anything at all.”

If given this request, Spencer would’ve taken the opportunity to launch into an enthusiastic lecture on quantum physics (and perhaps this was why nobody had ever asked him to talk recklessly—no one wanted to suffer that fate). But Hotch—Aaron—hesitated. He was not as verbose as Spencer, and it was clear he struggled to think of something to say. Then, he began to speak. “‘No, Frederic, this must not be. We are rough men who lead a rough life, but we are not so utterly heartless as to deprive thee of thy love. I think I am right in saying that there is not one here who would rob thee of this inestimable treasure for all the world holds dear.’” 

He was quoting something. Spencer wasn’t sure of the source material, but he kept listening to the way Aaron’s voice crackled in his chest, a rumble of thunder. “‘Not one. No, I thought there wasn’t. Keep thy love, Frederic, keep thy love. You’re very good, I’m sure. Well, it’s the top of the tide, and we must be off. Farewell, Frederic. When your process of extermination begins, let our deaths be as swift and painless as you can conveniently make them. I will! By the love I have for you, I swear it! Would that you could render this extermination unnecessary by accompanying me back to civilization! No, Frederic, it cannot be. I don’t think much of our profession, but, contrasted with respectability, it is comparatively honest. No, Frederic, I shall live and die a Pirate King.’”

Spencer drowsed on Aaron’s chest as he listened to him speak the words. It was a script of some sort, he deduced, an exchange between at least two different characters, but it seemed Aaron had started in the middle of the story for some reason—perhaps this was the part he remembered best, since most people didn’t have Spencer’s knack for recall. 

“‘Oh, better far to live and die under the brave black flag I fly, than play a sanctimonious part, with a pirate head and a pirate heart. Away to the cheating world go you, where pirates all are well-to-do; but I’ll be true to the song I sing, and live and die a Pirate King.’” 

_ Pirates,  _ Spencer heard, and then he remembered:  _ Pirates of Penzance. _ He had never read it himself, but he remembered its significance to Aaron. He had met Haley on the set of  _ Pirates of Penzance _ and had performed in it to woo her. It meant a great deal to him; he had quoted it at her funeral. Spencer nestled his head deeper into Aaron’s chest. His eyes sunk heavily. Why would Aaron quote it now? Was he apologizing to Haley? Was he clinging to it for some other reason? Spencer tried to tune back in, but sleepiness was muting his senses. He was so warm and safe lying here in the comfort of Aaron’s arms… Thinking was too difficult. He focused instead on the sound of Aaron’s heart and lungs.  _ Lub dub lub dub lub dub—whoosh, whoosh…  _

…

Once he realized Spencer had fallen asleep, Aaron stopped narrating. He leaned his head back into the memory foam pillows, relaxing under the hot tent of the blankets. He kept his hand pressed over Spencer’s ear, afraid the sound would pierce through and wake him again. His stomach rumbled. They hadn’t had dinner.  _ A place this shady definitely doesn’t have room service. _ But he knew they had passed a McDonald’s less than a block away when they’d arrived. Could he move without disturbing Spencer and get them both some late dinner? Not as long as that television was still on. Aaron popped his head out from under the blankets to breathe in the cool, fresh air of the room. With the blinds and curtains closed and all the lights off, he had successfully blacked out the room. 

Through the walls, footsteps reverberated and voices mumbled. He couldn’t make out the words, but he listened as they headed down the hall.  _ They left the room. They probably turned off the TV. _ Aaron lifted his hand from Spencer’s ear and waited. Spencer didn’t stir. Reaching for the pillow behind him, Aaron tucked it under Spencer’s chin and eased himself out from under his body. His breath changed a little, but then he snuggled up against the pillow, sinking deeper into sleep. Aaron released a sigh of relief.

Sifting through his suitcase, Aaron took out his gun and placed it in the drawer of the nightstand, where he always kept it in hotels, and then he slipped into his tennis shoes. He took the card key Spencer had placed on the desk and tucked it into the pocket of his shorts with his wallet. He left the room, holding the door to soften the sound of it closing. He lingered outside in the hallway for a moment, listening to hear if Spencer roused, and when he heard nothing from inside, he trotted down the hallway, down the stairs, through the lobby, and onto the sidewalk. 

The night sky in Atlanta glimmered overhead. He spotted the illuminated golden arches ahead of him, and he picked up his pace. Night had brought a cool breeze, too chilly for him to be roaming around in shorts and a T-shirt. And he needed to get back before Spencer awoke and found him missing. 

In the lobby of the McDonalds, Aaron found the end of the line and checked his phone. 

P. Garcia:  _ Here are the details of your flight tomorrow. Bring home the good doctor! We miss him.  _

P. Garcia:  _ We miss you too btw.  _ 💐🌸 🌺

A. Hotchner:  _ Thanks Garcia. _

P. Garcia: _How is he?_

A. Hotchner:  _ He’s okay. _

P. Garcia:  _ Do we get a hint? _

A. Hotchner:  _ No. He’ll tell you tomorrow.  _

P. Garcia:  _ Why did he go to Atlanta? _

A. Hotchner:  _ He’ll explain tomorrow. What’s Reid’s McDonalds order?  _

P. Garcia:  _ Southwest buttermilk crispy chicken salad, no dressing, two apple pies, coffee or Sprite _ . 

A. Hotchner:  _ Thank you. _

He approached the counter when it was his turn and ordered the food as Garcia had instructed.  _ He said he liked crunchy vegetables. _ He should’ve expected Reid’s order to be a salad and some comfort food. He paid the cashier and took the two cups over to the drink fountain. It was too late for anything caffeinated; he got a Sprite for both of them, and he pressed down all the tabs on his so he would remember he had drunk from it. Somehow, he suspected Spencer wouldn’t drink after him. 

Granted, he wouldn’t have suspected Spencer would kiss him, either, so maybe his suspicions were wrong sometimes. 

His eyes fluttered closed at the thought. He pinched the bridge of his nose, standing back as he waited for the cashier to call out his order number.  _ What are we going to do? _ It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Spencer had said it in the cemetery—they couldn’t do anything about this. One of them would lose their job. But he  _ wanted _ it. 

Guilt plagued him. He was taking advantage of his subordinate at work, a man ten years his junior. And some part of him still echoed with feelings of disloyalty, like he was betraying Haley by even thinking of having feelings for another person. How immoral was he if he followed through with this? He had done nothing so far without Spencer’s explicit permission, but was that a defense? Gideon’s voice echoed in his head: “ _ Spencer’s a grown man. He can take it. _ ” 

Some part of Aaron still looked at Spencer and saw the scrawny nineteen year old kid Gideon had introduced him to those years ago, years before Spencer would join the BAU. 

_ He walked across Quantico beside Gideon. “He’s not of age to enter the field yet, but you’re going to love him. He’s really interested in the BAU. I know he’s young, but he’s got more credentials than all of your agents combined.” _

_ Aaron was skeptical. “And he’s how old?” _

_ “Nineteen.” _

_ The trainees rounded the track in a pack. “Which one is he?” All of the young people on the track looked more or less the same to him. Aaron didn’t spend much time with them unless they demonstrated some interest in the BAU; it seemed a lot of the field agents in other departments still thought of the BAU as pseudoscience.  _

_ “Over there.” Gideon was not looking at the pack of young men and women, but rather his gaze was long behind them.  _

_ Aaron blinked incredulously. “You mean the one that’s dead last?” _

_ “Hey, Spencer!” Gideon called, and the boy looked up. He left the track, trudging from his awkward sort of run to approach Gideon.  _

_ Aaron whispered, “He’d be  _ lucky _ to weigh one-twenty soaking wet. How are you going to put him in the field?”  _

_ “Just wait til you talk to him,” Gideon replied through gritted teeth. The boy looked up from behind horn-rimmed glasses, like the kind Aaron’s grandmother had worn. They were clouded up and had sweat spatters on them. “How’s training treating you, Spencer?” _

_ Spencer squinted up at them before he replaced his glasses. “It’s hell.” He looked at Aaron, then back to Gideon, awaiting an introduction.  _

_ Gideon smiled. “Spencer, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner. He’s the unit chief of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Hotch, this is Spencer Reid.”  _

_ “Pleasure.” Aaron extended a hand.  _

_ Spencer didn’t take it. “There are millions of pathogenic and nonpathogenic bacteria exchanged in every handshake, including potentially deadly strains like MRSA. Doing a high-five instead cuts transmission by half, or a fist bump has ten times fewer bacteria, but when it comes to a handshake, even kissing is more hygienic.”  _

_ Aaron blinked, lowering his hand. “That’s… good to know.” He cleared his throat. “So Agent Gideon tells me you think you’re interested in profiling.”  _

_ “I haven’t picked a direction yet. I was interested in counterterrorism and explosives engineering, but Agent Gideon thinks the BAU could benefit more from my skill set.” _

_ Aaron couldn’t help but wonder,  _ What skill set? _ as he looked at this skinny kid sweating head to toe. Gideon cut in, “Explosives engineering and counterterrorism already have a great number of experts in their departments. And the BAU sometimes handles cases with aspects from both of those fields. You can get any position you want, Spencer, but I think you’d get bored in any field more narrow than the BAU.”  _

_ Spencer raised his eyebrows. “I’ll consider it.” _

_ “So you’re studying in addition to training? That must be difficult,” Aaron invited.  _

_ “No, it’s—it’s actually not. I’m just wrapping up my thesis in chemistry, and then I’m picking up some undergraduate and graduate programs to expand my list of credentials so my resume looks a little better.”  _

_ Aaron tried to mask his surprise. He wasn’t sure it worked. “You’re awfully young to be in a Ph.D. program.” _

_ Spencer looked at Gideon sheepishly. He licked his lips. “This is my third doctoral degree. I already have my doctorate of mathematics and engineering.” Across the field, a whistle blew, summoning all of the trainees back to the beck and call of the coach. “I haven’t figured out an equation to make this less hellish, though,” he remarked with a grimace. Gideon waved him off, encouraging him to go back to his coach. He looked like he had resigned himself to death. “Nice to meet you, Agent Hotchner.” He smiled at Gideon before he plodded after the other trainees.  _

_ Aaron looked at Gideon. “You like him, don’t you?” Gideon asked.  _

_ “What the hell is a kid like him doing in the FBI?”  _

_ “I met him last year. Nudged him in our direction. Nudge, nudge. C’mon, Hotch, you can’t seriously stand there and think that kid wouldn’t be a great asset to the BAU. He’s an autodidact, he can read twenty thousand words a minute, his quantifiable IQ is off the charts—” _

_ “And if I put him in the field, he’d be a liability to my entire team. Look at him!” They watched as one of the bigger boys tripped Spencer. He fell, and then he stumbled back up, large glasses askew. “He needs to be a professor. Not an FBI agent. Does he even know how to load a gun?”  _

_ “Oh, Hotch, give him a chance! I know he looks puny, but he’s stubborn as an ox. He won’t let himself fail at something. He doesn’t know how. Whatever qualifications he has to pass, he’ll do it, maybe by the skin of his teeth, but he’ll manage.”  _

_ Aaron sighed. Gideon was right; any unit could benefit from a quantifiable genius among its ranks, the BAU included. “Fine. You’re right. He’d be an asset.” His mouth drew downward at the corners. “One thing though.”  _

_ “What’s that?”  _

_ “On appearance alone, he’s going to undermine the reputation of any team he’s a member of. No one is going to look at him and take him seriously as an agent, and they’ll write off the whole unit as a result.” He stared at Gideon. “You need to start introducing him as  _ Doctor. _ ”  _

_ “I think I can make that happen.”  _

Spencer wasn’t that kid anymore, though. He hadn’t been for a very long time. Maybe Aaron was doing him a disservice by infantilizing him—he was a grown man, and he could protect himself. It didn’t make Aaron want to stop protecting him, though.  _ He won’t appreciate it if I smother him. _ Aaron couldn’t help it. He  _ hadn’t _ smothered Haley enough; he’d always given her space, too much space, and he’d failed to protect her when she needed him the most. But Spencer was independent and private about his life. 

_ There’s no point in considering it. _ They couldn’t continue this tryst into tomorrow. He had to go home to his family. And Spencer would go back to his apartment with the succulents, sound absorbers on the bedroom walls, and diplomas stuffed into the lowest drawer of his desk. 

The cashier called out his number. Aaron approached the counter and collected his bag, and he left the McDonalds, heading back up the street to the hotel. He climbed the steps to the second floor and swiped the key to enter the room. Spencer hadn’t moved, still sleeping peacefully on the bed. Aaron listened closely; it didn’t seem the neighbors had returned yet.  _ Maybe I should let him enjoy the silence. _ If they were like most hotel residents, they would turn on their television and let it run all night to muffle the sounds of their neighbors, and Spencer would be tortured from the sound emitted by the CRT television. 

Sometimes, hearing loss was a blessing. 

Aaron placed the bag on the desk, pulling out the single chair there. He turned on the lamp to illuminate the room. He put Spencer’s Sprite on the nightstand beside him, next to his glasses. Then, he sat down, unwrapping the sandwich he’d bought himself, watching Spencer’s chest rise and fall as he slept.  _ He’s so peaceful. _ He didn’t often see Spencer so relaxed. He was more accustomed to Spencer fidgeting, bouncing, and talking, talking endlessly, talking about everything and nothing and sometimes things in between. Watching him sleep, still except for the way his foot still drew circles on the mattress, a smile touched Aaron’s face. 

His phone rang. At the sound, Spencer sat upright, blinking in surprise as he surveyed the room, brow furrowed in confusion. Aaron pulled his phone from his pocket. Caller ID read:  _ Jessica. _ It was nine o’clock. Aaron opened the bag of food and held it out to Spencer, who squinted at him, not having yet replaced his glasses. He accepted the bag of food, a sleep-befuddled look upon his face, and he fumbled around on the nightstand for his glasses. As he donned them, he turned on the bedside lamp. Aaron swiped to take the call, lifting it to his ear. “Hey.” 

“Hey, I haven’t heard from you in hours. Where are you?”

“I’m in Atlanta.” 

“Jesus Christ, Aaron.” He winced. She sounded  _ so much _ like Haley when she talked to him like that. “Las Vegas, Omaha, Atlanta? What the hell kind of case are you working on? I don’t even know what time zone you’re in!”

Aaron shifted his jaw. “I’m headed home tomorrow.” Spencer’s cautious eyes darted up to him, but they didn’t linger. He didn’t want to be chastised in front of Spencer, but Jessica was within her rights to be upset. “Can I talk to Jack?” 

“That’s why I called—Jack’s sick. I just got him down to sleep.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

She sighed dramatically. “Just school germs, I think. Zachary’s mom had to cancel their playdate today; I guess he’s got the same thing. She acted like several kids in the class had come down with it. He’s running a fever and got a sore throat. I think he’s fine. I put some peppermint oil behind his ears to cool him off.” 

“You can give him aspirin or something—”

“Not aspirin,” Spencer interrupted. Aaron looked up at him, eyes narrowed and mouth open in surprise at his interjection. “Aspirin has been linked to Reyes’ syndrome in children up to age nineteen because of a potentially deadly interaction with viral illnesses. Aspirin is contraindicated for juveniles. If you want similar onset of action in the reduction of a fever, look for nonselective COX-1 and COX-2 inhibitors. It’s worth mentioning that those nonselective COX inhibitors have been linked to erosive gastritis, so they shouldn’t be used long-term, since COX-1 has some duties in the body like protecting the stomach lining, but selective COX-2 inhibitors aren’t available over the counter, and I doubt most doctors would prescribe—”

Aaron held up his hand, and Spencer cut himself off. “What should she give him?”

“Who is that?” Jessica asked.

“Oh, acetaminophen and ibuprofen are both safe, I’d go with one of those. Probably should see a doctor if those don’t work.”

“It’s Dr. Reid,” Aaron answered Jessica.

“Isn’t he a math doctor? Why is he answering your medical question?” 

“He’s an everything doctor. Give Jack Tylenol or ibuprofen, not aspirin.”

Jessica huffed. “I  _ know _ not to give him aspirin. I’m raising two kids. When he wakes up, I’ll give him some Tylenol.” Aaron thanked her quietly; he could sense the irritation in her voice. He knew she would never take it out on Jack, but she had reached the end of her rope with him, and unlike Haley, she didn’t have the privilege of divorcing him and taking Jack away. “Goodnight, Aaron. See you tomorrow.” Aaron bid her goodnight. 

The call ended. Spencer didn’t look up from his salad. “She’s raising two kids; you’d think she’d know peppermint oil isn’t an effective fever reducer and can aggravate respiratory tracts in infants and children.” He kept munching on his lettuce. It was crunchy, the way he liked it. 

Aaron took his sandwich and sat beside Spencer on the bed. “I pick my battles with her.” Jessica helped him a lot and never asked for very much in exchange. He gave her as much leeway as she needed to help Jack succeed. Spencer nodded, seeming to agree that was a good plan. “Why do you know so much about child health?” 

Spencer shrugged. “I was pretty much my own parent as a kid, so I read a lot of books about child health to try to make sure I was meeting all of my milestones. It wasn’t like anybody else was going to notice if I needed to see the doctor.” Aaron considered his words, mulling them over. It saddened him, thinking of Spencer being so young and having no one. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” 

“How’d you know my order?” 

“I asked Garcia. There are apple pies in the bag, too.” Spencer pulled out the two boxes of apple pies. He offered one to Aaron. Aaron hesitated. “She said you get two.” He hadn’t gotten one for himself. 

Spencer’s brow quirked. “I do. I always get one for JJ. Henry will steal it if he hears her order an apple pie, so I get her one and tell him it’s a special adult snack that he can have when he’s older.” He offered the second pie to Aaron, and this time, Aaron accepted it, somewhat impressed. “How long do we have before he figures it out?” 

Aaron shrugged. “I told Jack the president made it illegal for us to buy kids candy at the store two years ago. It worked when it wasn’t an election year, but now they’re covering democracy in school, so I’m being heavily encouraged to vote for the candidate who hasn’t outlawed Pixie Stix.”

Chuckling, Spencer covered his mouth as he chewed. “You know, there’s a guy in my graduate program right now who’s writing his final paper on how he predicts that Donald Trump is going to win the 2016 election.”

With a baffled face, Aaron looked at him. “What the hell are you studying?” 

“Oh, we’re studying foresight—that is, the practice of looking at statistical and sociological trends in the past and present to determine what’s going to happen in the future. Most of the students are politically driven, but some are business majors looking to measure trends in the stock market. It sounds ludicrous, but I read his paper, and he actually makes a fairly compelling argument.” 

“What’s your final paper about?” 

“I predict trends in antimicrobial resistance and potential paths the medical community will have to take when poor antimicrobial stewardship finally wins out, since the current rate of antibiotic development simply can’t compete with the rate at which bacteria are mutating and replicating.” 

Spencer adjusted his glasses. His face was uncertain, like he was considering something. Aaron asked, “What is it?” 

Light brown eyes met his in the lamplight. “Oh, nothing. I did some research two years ago on antimicrobial resistance when I was getting my graduate degree in biology. I asked one of my old professors for her opinion on my paper in foresight, and she invited me back to her program to get my Ph. D.” 

Aaron tilted his head. “That sounds great, doesn’t it?” 

He shrugged. “I’ve considered it. But Ph. D. programs are very labor intensive. I stopped entering them when I joined the BAU. I’d have to take a year off, at least, if not more… and I honestly only think she invited me because she is leading a team to develop new antibiotics and could use another expert on hand.” He kept looking at his salad, but now he was pushing the lettuce around more than he was actually eating it. “It’s not like I  _ need _ another degree for people to take my credentials seriously, and I think I do better work here.” 

“But you’re thinking about it.” 

“She makes a good case. Twenty thousand people die from MRSA every year, and now VRE is a threat, not to mention complications from CDAD and drug-resistant strains of TB—”

“You’re going to have to stop using acronyms if you want me to understand what you’re saying.” 

Spencer grinned. “Basically, there are a lot of superbugs out there, and they’re killing more people than even the most prolific serial killers.” He raised his eyebrows, pushing around the lettuce and chicken with his fork. “I don’t like biology very much. It’s too fluid of a science. I prefer math and physics. And I like what I do now.” 

“So don’t do it.” 

Spencer lifted his eyes back to Aaron. “You think it’s that easy?”

Aaron wrapped up his trash from his sandwich. “You’re happy now, aren’t you? Why would you want to risk going into a career you wouldn’t like as much?”

“To save more lives?” 

_ Oh. _ It was chivalry, Aaron realized, driving Spencer’s consideration, not any concern about his own interests and wishes. “You know you don’t  _ owe _ anyone anything, right? You’re not obligated to go into the career that will save the most people. You can do what you enjoy, too.” 

Sighing, Spencer looked away. “When I was ten, I kind of expected I would have cured schizophrenia by now. I know it sounds silly, but I feel—I feel like a disappointment. That I’ve come this far and I haven’t actually fixed anything yet. I mean, there are a handful of mathematical concepts and inquiries named after me, but those aren’t going to cure cancer. There are a lot of things going on in the world that I could help with, and sometimes I feel like I’m doing the world a disservice by not achieving those things.” 

“You’re not a disappointment, Spencer.” Aaron spoke the words slowly and carefully. “There are many, many people we have saved who we wouldn’t have found without your help. And there are many criminals behind bars who wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for you. The world is a safer place because you do what you do.”

“Are you saying that because you want me to stay with the BAU?”

The question shocked Aaron. Spencer regarded him somewhat suspiciously. He licked his lips, taken aback by the direct confrontation. “I wouldn’t like to replace you, no—actually, I don’t think that would be possible.” The odds of another childhood prodigy getting dropped on the steps of the BAU by a senior profiler were fairly slim. “But I also would like to be very selfish and tell you to do it.”

“How’s that?” Aaron made eye contact with Spencer, and then it donned on him. “Oh. Right. I hadn’t taken that angle yet.”

“I don’t want to be a factor in your decision.” 

“Of course.” Spencer bit into his apple pie, chewing and swallowing thoughtfully. “Just so we’re on the same page—as of tomorrow, none of this happened, right?” 

It had hurt less when Foyet stabbed him, he thought. Aaron didn’t have a good answer. He wanted to say,  _ No, no, that’s not what I want, _ but he couldn’t think of any other way to make it play out. If they worked in any other unit, perhaps they could’ve successfully kept it under the table, but they were surrounded by profilers. Someone would get wise. “If that’s what you want.” 

Spencer narrowed his eyes at him. “It’s not, but… I don’t want either of us to lose our jobs.” He wiped off his hands on the napkins in front of him. “It would soil your reputation in the bureau.” Spencer was right; Aaron could only imagine the backlash he would face if the men upstairs worked things out. “I don’t want you to jeopardize your future for me.” 

“Right.” 

“Were you expecting me to say something different?”

“I don’t know, honestly.”

Spencer paused. “If I said something different, would you do it?”

_ Gideon said I would indulge myself and then feel guilty. _ “I think I would.” Spencer was surprised. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just as shocked as you are.” A grin touched Spencer’s face, but his eyes were sorrowful. He swung off of the bed. “Where are you going?”

He got his toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss from his suitcase. “I’m going to get the romaine out of my teeth.” Of course Spencer was fastidious about oral hygiene, just like all other forms of hygiene. Aaron discarded the remainder of their trash from the restaurant and checked his phone where Garcia had forwarded the details of their flight tomorrow—the flight, where this journey ended. 

Eventually, this would just be a bittersweet memory. But right now, it hurt. 

He got out his own toothbrush and toothpaste, and when Spencer left the bathroom, Aaron replaced him over the sink. They each put away their things and packed their bags to be ready to leave in the morning, and then Aaron settled back down on the bed, drawing the covers back for Spencer to join him. 

Spencer slipped under the covers beside him. He took off his glasses and placed them on the nightstand. “Do you need the lamp?”

“No.” Spencer turned it off, casting the room in black darkness. Aaron frowned at the window across the room, the moonlight bleeding from around the blinds the only illumination. He couldn’t even make out Spencer’s outline. He rolled onto his side, facing him, and one hand reached for Spencer. It caressed his waist. Spencer curled toward him, thin arms reaching for him, and Aaron welcomed him into his embrace. 

He buried his face into Spencer’s soft hair and inhaled deeply. This was just like all of his dreams—the smell of cinnamon and vanilla, the texture of his peanut-colored hair (he couldn’t see it, but he imagined it in his mind’s eye), the way Spencer’s body fit against his. He pressed a kiss to Spencer’s temple. Lifting his head, Spencer’s lips puckered, reaching for Aaron’s, and Aaron cradled his jaw as they kissed. One hand slid behind Spencer’s head. His fingers twirled into his long hair. 

Spencer’s kisses were hesitant, but they were growing in confidence. One hand fisted in the front of Aaron’s T-shirt, pulling them nearer. Spencer’s flannel-clad legs tangled up in his. Their mouths moved against one another’s in a searing heat. Spencer tugged on Aaron’s shirt. He rolled over onto his back, dragging Aaron along with him. Aaron braced himself on one forearm above Spencer’s shoulder. 

He severed the kiss. “Am I hurting you?” His whole body hovered above Spencer’s. He didn’t want to crush him beneath his weight. 

“God, no.” Spencer lunged to kiss him again. His arms snaked around Aaron’s neck, and Aaron breathed back into the kiss. His right hand kept scratching at Spencer’s scalp. Little noises squeezed from Spencer’s mouth, bleeding into Aaron’s in return. Spencer tilted his head back. “Keep going—” 

These words emerged in a frenetic pant. Aaron placed a tender kiss at his pulse point. His lips glided lower, below the place where Spencer’s collar would rest on his neck, so it would be out of sight, and then he opened his mouth and sank in his teeth. Spencer’s hands grabbed at his hair and pressed him into it, whining a euphoric sound. Aaron released the tension in his jaw and left a trail of kisses instead, moving back up to Spencer’s mouth. 

Spencer’s mouth opened. “Aaron—” Aaron peppered kisses there. “What are you—” He stopped, his one arm balancing his weight above Spencer’s shoulder, his right hand rubbing Spencer’s scalp in the way that made him relax. “I want you to…” Spencer drifted off, and his face flamed with heat. 

Aaron knew what he meant. Gingerly, he moved off of Spencer, pulling Spencer to face him. “I’m not going to take that from you.” He brushed Spencer’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“I understand.” Opening his arms, Spencer slid closer to him, placing his head on his chest. Aaron enveloped him in an embrace. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—his whole body burned with a whole lot of  _ want to _ right now, so much that he wondered how selfish it would make him to continue. But he couldn’t take that from Spencer and then end it. He couldn’t entertain them, either of them, with one night and then abolish it from their memories. Spencer’s first time needed to  _ mean _ something, with someone who meant something to him, and Aaron couldn’t allow himself to be that person. He kept combing his fingers through his hair. 

Suddenly, Spencer’s whole body tensed. His head shrank down into his shoulders again, hands flying up to cover his ears. “Hey, hey, hey—” Aaron covered Spencer’s ears with his hands. He hadn’t heard the neighbors when they had arrived back to their room, but once they turned on their television, Spencer’s reaction was visceral. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He pressed Spencer’s ear to the left side of his chest like before and pulled the blankets up over their heads, tucking them in deep. 

His hand covered Spencer’s where it rested on his ear. Their fingers laced together. “I’m alright,” Spencer mumbled. “It just surprised me.” He nuzzled into Aaron’s chest. “You’re tachycardic.” 

“What?”

“Your heart is beating too fast.”

“I know what it means.” 

“Then why’d you ask?” 

Aaron breathed a sigh, and he rumpled Spencer’s hair. “Get some sleep.” 

Spencer was not assuaged. “Don’t you have a family history of heart disease?” 

_ Of course I couldn’t get off so easily. _ “Yes.”

Nodding to himself, Spencer said, “I’m going to wait until your heart rate is normal.” 

“Okay.” It seemed easier to agree with Spencer than to argue with him about the circumstances; their actions had made him anxious, and Spencer’s reaction to the television had startled him. 

“Maybe I should take your blood pressure,” Spencer mused. 

“You’re not taking my blood pressure.” 

“Your heart rate was high earlier, too. Not this high, though, but—higher than it should’ve been. Average is sixty to eighty. Normal is sixty to a hundred. Yours was ninety-three earlier. Now it’s one hundred and twenty-two. But I think it’s coming down.” Aaron pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth and inhaled long, deep, and slow. Then, he released the pressure and exhaled. All of the tense muscles in his arms and legs and abdomen relaxed. “Yeah, it is.” 

Messing with Spencer’s locks, Aaron joked, “I’m not going to die today?” 

“I guess not. It’s my lucky day.” Spencer reposed, turning tranquil and soft under his touch. “Are you seeing a cardiologist?”

_ We’re still not dropping this topic? _ “No.” He felt Spencer tighten back up. He could already hear it, the lecture Spencer prepared to give, about his father’s death to a heart attack before the age of fifty and how that genetic predisposition plus a high stress job and a history of trauma warranted regular trips to a specialist. “I get a physical yearly. I always pass my fit tests. My cholesterol is in the normal range. I’m fine.” 

Spencer quieted down. “But if your doctor tells you to, you will, right?” 

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” 

At long last, Spencer fell silent. Aaron ran one hand down his back, feeling the ridges of his bones and the musculature and soft tissue of his body. Tomorrow, this would end, but tonight, his mind was at ease with Spencer beside him. He couldn’t imagine he would have any nightmares as long as Spencer was coiled beside him. 

…

When Spencer awoke, the room was still cast in darkness. He blinked a few times, lifting his fists to rub the rheum from his eyes.  _ I have to pee. _ Aaron had wrapped his body around him, heavy arm slung across his chest and one leg hooking into Spencer’s; he hugged Spencer like a teddy bear, fast asleep.  _ How am I going to manage this? _ Spencer pushed both of his arms underneath Aaron’s, lifting it. He wormed out from under it like a contortionist. His legs skated out from between Aaron’s. 

Aaron took one long, deep breath, but he didn’t awaken. Spencer replaced his body with a pillow, and then he took his glasses from the nightstand and tiptoed into the bathroom to relieve himself. He washed his hands thoroughly. As he opened the bathroom door, the light cast across the bed where Aaron slept. 

His mouth was slightly open. Drool trickled onto the pillow beneath his cheek. One arm hung partially off the bed. Spencer pressed two fingers to his wrist, checking his pulse.  _ Fifty-eight.  _ His resting heart rate was exceptional. Maybe he didn’t need to worry so much. Spencer studied him in the bed, the rise-fall of his chest and the occasional twitch of his face.  _ I can’t wake him. _ And getting back into the bed would do just that. 

Spencer turned off the bathroom light and folded himself into the other bed. The sheets were cool, but it didn’t feel as nice as it did when he tucked himself into the creases of Aaron’s body. He took off his glasses and replaced them on the nightstand beside him.

The people next door had, at least, turned off their television. 

Lying on his back, Spencer crossed his arms across his chest and started counting pi to relax again. He was three hundred fifty seven places in when he drifted off to sleep. 

“ _ Dr. Reid… _ ” purred a vision above him. The voice echoed. He was dreaming; everything was slightly askew, the way it always was in his dream world. He swallowed hard. Someone addressing him as  _ Dr. Reid _ in his dreams scarcely ever went well. The vision was hazy, just a figure, a man’s voice. “ _ Dr. Reid… How does it feel? _ ”

Spencer’s eyelashes fluttered. “ _ What? _ ” he asked the specter. 

Then, he felt it.  _ Drip. Drip. Drip. _ Something dripped onto the left side of his face. Each drop landed in the same place, but some rolled down his temple and others down his cheek. “ _ Dr. Reid… _ ” His face wriggled, but he found himself immobilized, unable to escape the dripping; his whole body refused to move, refused to obey. His heart leapt into his throat.  _ Wake up! Wake up now! _

Spencer’s eyes snapped open. He gasped with relief—

Behind the white cloth mask, the man standing above his bed smiled, just where his lips were visible. Over the mask, he wore glasses—Spencer’s glasses. “Hotch!” Spencer yelled, scrambling back away from the man. “Oh my god! _Hotch!_ ** _Hotch!_** Hotch, _help!_ ” He fumbled for something, anything, to use as a weapon, but he only found a pillow—still, he wielded it like a shield. “ _Hotch—_ ”

The man whirled around. A heavy weight landed on Spencer, one arm flattening him to the bed as Hotch covered his body with his own. The man swung himself from the open window. Three flashes of light—Hotch fired three shots. Two shattered the windows. Another ricocheted off of the wall. He dropped his gun. A woman in the next room was screaming. “ _ Call 911! _ ” Hotch bellowed. He grabbed the lamp and turned it on. “Oh my god, Spencer—” He tore off his shirt.

“My glasses, he took my glasses—”

Hotch wadded up his shirt and stuck it against Spencer’s temple. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not, I can’t see anything, he took my goddamn glasses—”

“Reid,  _ where is the blood coming from? _ ” Hotch held his shirt tighter and tighter against his head, looking for a wound in his hair. 

Spencer lifted up a hand and touched the side of his own face. He drew his fingers back coated in blood. He licked his lips and tasted it where it trickled down his mouth. “It’s—It’s not mine.” He gulped. The metallic taste of blood didn’t leave his tongue. “It’s not my blood, it’s not mine.” 

“Are you sure?” Hotch hadn’t satisfied himself; he kept looking through Spencer’s hair for a gash or a wound of some sort, some source of the blood the man had dribbled drop by drop onto Spencer’s face. He used his shirt to try to collect all of the blood, wiping it from Spencer’s face and hair and lips. 

Spencer’s throat closed up. Behind Hotch, on top of the chest of drawers, something rested, something that wasn’t there before. “Hotch—” he squeaked. It was round. He squinted. Oh, it was round and blood-stained and it had a shape he recognized even without his glasses. “Is that a head?”

Hotch’s arms wrapped around him protectively, drawing him back against his chest, but Spencer couldn’t tear his gaze away from the wall. “Yeah,” Hotch whispered into his ear. 

Above the decapitated head on the wall, large, bold-print letters were fixed in bright red,  _ In blood, oh my god, he wrote on the wall in blood _ — Spencer licked his lips and swallowed again. He still tasted the blood. “I can’t read it from here,” he whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady. “What does it say?” 

Releasing a somewhat shaky breath, Hotch squeezed him tighter. Spencer understood why. “It says, ‘DIE FAG.’” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! <3


	7. Chapter 7

“Clear moments are so short. There is much more darkness, more ocean than firm land, more shadow than form.” -Adam Zabajewski

…

Both Emily’s and JJ’s cell phones rang at the same time. 

Fumbling awake from a dead sleep, Emily pushed JJ’s arm off of her naked chest. “Jayje. Jayje, the phone—” JJ groaned, stuffing her head beneath her pillow.  _ Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. _ Emily reached for her own phone on the nightstand and accepted the call, and with a sigh, JJ reluctantly picked up her own cell and swiped to take the group call. “Hey, Pen, you’ve got us both.”

“I’ve got everybody then!” Penelope’s voice trembled. “I need everyone at the round table right away, ASAP. There’s an emergency.”

“Garcia, it’s two-thirty in the morning…” Rossi yawned. “Couldn’t it wait until dawn?” 

“I know, I know—but no, it can’t.”

Morgan came on the line. “Babygirl, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

JJ stifled a yawn with the palm of her hand. “Wait—what about Hotch and Reid? Are we going on a case without them? Will they meet us there?” Emily rolled out of bed and started turning on the lights, dressing herself in her work clothes without a word of complaint. 

“They’re already there. I’ll explain when you get in, I just—I don’t think I could make it make sense over the phone. Um, JJ?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Pretty boy needs his glasses. He says you know where they are in his apartment, so if you could stop by and grab them for him, he would really appreciate it. He’s blind as a bat right now, and he sounded pretty ticked about it.” 

Morgan interrupted, “What happened to Reid’s glasses? Where are they, even?”

“Atlanta.” 

“What are they doing there?” 

“I told you, I’ll explain when you get here.” 

JJ shoveled a hand through her hair as she sat up. “Listen, it’s going to take me awhile. We’re going to have to get Henry to the sitter, and then stopping by Spence’s apartment, that’s going to take some time—” She opened her phone and selected her text conversation with Spencer. 

Rossi asked, “Babysitter? They’re awake right now?” 

Emily glanced back at JJ over her shoulder. “He’s right. They won’t be available for a few more hours.” She passed JJ the hairbrush, and JJ started to brush her hair. “I’ll take Henry to Will’s, and JJ can go to Reid’s apartment. That’ll save some time. Give us forty-five minutes, Garcia!” 

“As fast as you can get here, all of you, please.” The call ended. JJ stared at her conversation with Spencer from yesterday.  _ News? _ She wondered what it was, or if this was related to it. How did he lose his glasses? He’d never lost his glasses before, as long as she’d known him—mostly because they always had to be on his face. 

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Spence???? Are you ok??? What’s going on??? _

🌞JJ🌞: _ If you’re reading this please answer me _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Are you safe? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Am sade. Witg jotch. Camt see. jeadache. pls hurru.  _

At the sound of the incoming text tone, Emily asked, “Is that Reid?” JJ nodded. “Is he okay? Does he know what’s going on? What happened to his glasses?”

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Stay with Hotch. We’re coming as fast as we can.  _

“He can’t see, so his texts aren’t exactly making a lot of sense.” JJ put her phone down and dressed herself. “You don’t have to go to Will’s. I’m sure we can work something out—I don’t want you to have to do that.” 

Emily was already brushing her teeth. “I’m not afraid of him,” she mumbled around her spittle, “and I’m not gonna waste time getting to Reid and Hotch. If they need us, they need us.” JJ nodded, licking her lips. She didn’t understand how Emily was like this—so ready to go, all the time. She felt like she was moving through a thick, groggy haze. She rubbed her eyes with her fists and then finished brushing her hair. “I’ll get Henry ready,” Emily volunteered when she spat her toothpaste, and she ducked out of the room, leaving JJ adjusting her hair in the mirror, anxiety and exhaustion warring inside of her. 

In Henry’s bedroom, Emily knelt beside his bed and nudged him awake. He opened his big blue eyes. “Hey, little buddy.” Emily smiled. He didn’t smile back. He opened his mouth in a big yawn. “We’ve got to go to work, okay? I’m gonna take you to your dad’s.” Henry held up his arms, and Emily lifted him up. She hastily packed him a bag and put his coat on over his pajamas. She laced up his shoes. “JJ, we’re heading out!” 

JJ trotted from their bedroom. “Wait, wait—does he have everything? Stuffy?” Emily held it up. “Blankie?” Emily held it up. “Outfits?” 

“I packed three. Will should have more at his place.” Apprehension crossed JJ’s face. “He’s not gonna be very happy I’m coming, is he?” She shook her head. “Well, tough.” She leaned forward, pecking her on the lips. “I’ll pick you up on my way back through town at Reid’s apartment, and we can pick up your car from the complex when we get back. Do you trust me to put him in his carseat the right way, or do you want to watch me do that, too?” she asked, only half-teasing. 

JJ kissed Henry’s cheek. “Go, go, I’ll be as fast as I can.” 

JJ drove to Reid’s apartment and drummed up the stairs two at a time, fumbling around for her keyring. The number twenty-three glared down at her, judging her, as she picked through the different keys, finally selecting the one for Reid’s apartment; it had a sticker with an S on it for  _ Spence _ so she wouldn’t forget where it belonged. She entered his apartment and left the door ajar, flicking on the lights. 

She found his glasses beside the clipboard where he wrote his letters to his mom. She picked up the case and tucked it into her purse. Then, she went to his bathroom and dug around, searching for an unopened package of contact lenses—just in case he needed them. Those went in her purse, as well. 

Her phone buzzed with activity. The BAU group chat was singing to her. 

🌸PG🌸:  _ Morgan’s here, he wins the race. _

Rossi 🍝 :  _ I didn’t realize we were racing.  _

❤️Em❤️:  _ I’m outside Reid’s apt waiting for JJ. _

Morgan💪:  _ Hotch, Reid, are you reading these messages? _

🌸PG🌸:  _ They’re probably occupied with local PD _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ I’m coming, Em. Spence answered my text but he can’t see the keyboard so it’s not easily readable. He said he’s safe. _

She walked and texted at the same time, tripping over the door jamb on her way out. She turned off all the lights and locked the door behind her, and then she raced down the stairs, out of the building, toward the vehicle where Emily was waiting. “How pissed was Will?” 

“Honestly? He was too tired and surprised to say anything out of line.” 

“Thank god.” JJ buckled herself in. “I hate when he gets bent out of shape in front of Henry.” 

Emily’s tires squealed. She violated a good number of traffic laws. JJ said nothing and held on tight. 

They rushed through the dark, deserted bullpen up toward the round table room, where all the lights were on and the tablets waited for them. Morgan paced back and forth. Garcia’s eyes were red-rimmed. “Garcia, what’s wrong?” Emily asked, putting her things down on the back of the chair. 

“She’s not saying anything until we’re all here—” 

Rossi blustered into the room, sipping his coffee fervently. “This is an hour of the morning I hoped I would never see any of you.” 

Garcia dabbed at her eyes. “Everyone, um, sit? Please?” They all exchanged glances before looking dubiously at her. None of them sat down. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I wanted to treat this like it’s a normal case, but it isn’t, so I won’t.” The four agents reached for their tablets. “Wait—” Four pairs of eyes lifted back up to her. “For some, um, some context. I know Reid left under some, um, concerning circumstances, and he told us he would come home with news. And this isn’t the situation he planned on—I mean, this isn’t how he wanted us to find out, but given what has happened, I feel like you should know before you look at these pictures that Reid was going to tell us that he’s gay.” 

Morgan ogled at her. “More power to him, but what does this have to do with the case?”

Garcia pressed her clicker. Emily’s eyes widened as the screen lit up. JJ reached for her hand and squeezed it  _ hard. _ “Hotch and Reid were sharing a hotel room in Atlanta when Reid woke up, about an hour ago, to find a man standing over his bed dripping blood down his face.” Emily pulled her eyes from the screen, looking to Morgan and Rossi, both of their faces just as frozen with shock and horror at the sight on the screen—the words DIE FAG written on the wall in blood and below them, a decapitated head resting on top of a generic chest of drawers. “He screamed and woke up Hotch, but the man slipped out the window. Hotch wasn’t able to get a shot at him.” She swallowed hard. “The unsub took Reid’s glasses.” 

A long, pregnant silence followed, all of them in shock, none of them knowing how to respond. Finally, Rossi spoke. “These aren’t crime scene photographs.”

“No, they are not—CSI is still on the scene, but Hotch took these and sent them to me from his phone. We also don’t have an ID on our victim yet, but they’re scanning the immediate area for a body. There’s no ME report, there’s—there’s nothing, this  _ just _ happened, but Hotch called and he wants you there as soon as possible. The jet is waiting.” 

Morgan turned to the door. “Let’s go. We can debrief on the plane.” Emily, JJ, and Rossi all looked between each other. “Let’s  _ go, _ ” Morgan repeated. “I know that—that’s pretty gruesome, but we’ve gotta catch the son of a bitch who did this to Reid. He’s been through enough. Let’s go.” They all drew back and left the round table room, heading out to the airfield. 

Boarding the jet, the four of them sat in a cluster over the table, each studying the photographs on their tablets from Garcia. Emily cleared her throat. “Do we think Reid was targeted?”

“He realized he was gay and less than twenty-four hours later, there’s a slur and a head in his hotel room? If that isn’t targeted, I don’t know what is,” Morgan answered. 

“Prentiss has a point,” Rossi said. “If someone were going to target Reid and only Reid, they’d probably do it around here. This unsub struck in Atlanta. Maybe it’s more likely he—he overheard Hotch and Reid talking and decided to act impulsively, attacking a gay person out of homophobic rage.” 

JJ shook her head. “If it were rage, Spence would be dead.” She held her temple in her hand. “Look. He managed to climb up to a second story window, removed the screen, opened it from the outside, climbed inside, planted the head and wrote on the wall, and  _ then _ he decided to wake up Spence with the blood. At any point in that, he could’ve killed him, but he didn’t. This was too calculated to be impulsive anger.”

“But Hotch was just a bed away,” Morgan pointed out. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t feel very comfortable killing somebody knowing Hotch was five feet away from them. He hears a struggle and wakes up, unsub is in trouble.”

Rossi tilted his head. “If he was going to incapacitate one of them, he should’ve taken out the bigger threat first. He didn’t. And he took a huge risk going into a room with two FBI agents. This guy must be pretty confident in his own abilities. Must be a big guy.” 

Emily lifted her head. “Hotch is six foot two, he’s a monster in hand-to-hand combat, and he’s a great shot. How big do you have to be to not be afraid of him?”

JJ bit the tip of her tongue. “He had a backup plan… He must’ve.” Eyes landed on her. “He wanted to leave this message—it’s a taunt. But if things didn’t go as planned, he had another plan on how things would work out. We just don’t know what.” Emily glanced sideways at her and then studied the faces of Morgan and Rossi. “Spence must be a specific target, right? I mean, if he wasn’t, why choose a room on the second story? And with the circumstances, it’s—I’m not Spence with statistics, but it seems incredibly unlikely that this was random.” 

The laptop lit up with Garcia’s face. “Weebles!”

“What’s up, babygirl?”

“So glad you asked, hunk. Hotch just texted me that police have found a body, no head, in an alley less than a block away from the hotel. All he knows is that the victim is male, but they’re taking the body and the head to the ME’s office to make sure they’re a match. They’re also running tests on the blood they recovered off of Reid’s body and off of the wall to see if it’s the victim’s blood. CSI and local PD are still crawling all over the scene, and they’re trying to get in touch with Detective Farraday.”

Morgan gazed down at the pictures on his tablet. His brow furrowed.  _ He looks a lot like Hotch right now, _ Emily realized as he swiped back and forth between them. “We were last in Atlanta in 2007, right?”

JJ was white as a ghost. “Tobias Hankel.” She clutched Emily’s hand tighter under the table. “Why would he go back there? That was—That was like the worst day of his life.” 

“That was a Gideon case,” Rossi interjected. “Somebody fill me in.” 

“I don’t need any reminders, so I’m going to log off now. I’ll hit you back when I know anything new!” Morgan thanked Garcia, and she disappeared from the screen of the laptop. He closed it and put it away. 

Tucking it out of sight, Morgan’s eyes glinted under the lighting of the plane. “In 2007, we were working a series of religiously motivated crimes. Each crime had a 911 call placed just before the murders in which it seemed like three unsubs were working together to kill the families. So we built the profile of a team.” 

JJ tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “There was a 911 call placed several months before the murder of the last family. Someone reported he saw someone climb the fence into the backyard of the family’s home. It was a lead, so Spence and I went to the caller’s home to ask him some questions.” She cleared her throat, anxiously bouncing her knee. “When we got there, the caller denied he had ever made the call and shut us out. I asked Spence why—why someone would call 911 only to say that they didn’t, and that was when he realized—”

“To gauge the response time,” Rossi said. 

“Yeah. We didn’t have any service, so we couldn’t call anyone, and Spence saw him take off through the cornfield and went after him. We got—We got separated when I went into a barn, and there were—there were all these dogs.” Her voice shook. 

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “The dogs were a murder weapon against one of the victims. That kill was live-streamed. We all watched it back at the station, and the detective recognized the dogs—realized he knew the owner, and we had just sent JJ and Reid in blind to interview him when we thought he was a witness. By the time we got there, Reid and Hankel were both gone.” 

“What about the team?” 

Emily sighed. “There wasn’t a team. Tobias Hankel was a cluster of three personalities. Dissociative identity disorder. Tobias was an unwilling participant, but the other two personalities, Charles and Raphael, dominated him. When the stream came back online, Reid was in the chair, and we watched the three of them alternate—one would torture, one would interrogate, and Tobias would drug him to stop the pain. Once he even did CPR on him.” 

Steepling his fingers on top of the table, Morgan squared up. “Reid knew we were watching. He left clues—Hotch figured them out, and we realized he was in a cemetery. With Garcia’s help, we triangulated their location in Marshall Parish and caught up with them.” 

JJ stared at the grain of the table. “Reid shot Tobias with his own gun. Charles was making him dig his own grave.” 

Rossi’s eyes widened. “So you’re concerned about why Reid would go back to Atlanta with everything that happened there.” They all nodded mutely. 

Morgan’s hands relaxed on the table. “I don’t think he did it to see the aquarium, that’s for sure.” Emily glanced at JJ’s face and then back to the wood in front of her, not making eye contact with any of them. “Emily?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know something?” The three of them looked at her. “You got real quiet all of a sudden.” 

Emily held her breath, looking between the three of them. “No—look, it was a long time ago, and Reid asked me not to say anything—”

“Someone left a  _ head _ in his hotel room. I think we passed preserving his privacy a few miles back.”

Licking her lips, she ducked her head.  _ He’s right. _ Reid had  _ specifically _ asked her not to say anything to JJ, and she hadn’t. But it had been almost five years. She pressed her hands palm down on top of the table. “Right after everything happened, Reid heard that the county didn’t have any next of kin for Tobias and Charles Hankel. He—He anonymously paid to have Charles cremated, and he had Tobias buried in the Marshall Parish cemetery.” 

“He did  _ what? _ ” JJ repeated incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he asked me not to.”

“ _ Why? _ ”

Morgan’s eyebrows knitted together. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because Reid anticipated that you would look like a very angry little woman right now.”

Emily shot him a withering glance; JJ’s cheeks flushed, but her hands formed tight fists, and she set her jaw. Emily consoled, “He just didn’t want to upset you. He knew how hurt and worried you were about what happened to him, and he didn’t want to make you think he was unstable. I’m the only person who knew.” She glanced back to Morgan and Rossi. “He mentioned a few weeks ago that he thought it was wrong he had paid for the site but had never actually visited it. I told him he wasn’t obligated to go back there—he was more charitable than anyone with what he did. But I don’t think I convinced him. He might have decided he wanted to make a stop there on his way back home.” 

Rossi opened up his tablet again, reviewing the pictures. “If that’s the case, then do we think maybe the unsub is someone Reid met in 2007? Maybe someone bothered by the fact he paid to have a serial killer given a respectable memorial. He comes back into town, unsub sees him and decides to make a statement. If he was angry enough about the Hankel case, he wouldn’t be afraid of Hotch—especially if he thought Hotch was culpable.” 

“Getting a list of everyone we interacted with back then will be difficult,” JJ said. 

“Garcia can do it,” Morgan reminded them. “Anyone we had contact with where it went into the system, she can find.”

“And anyone that didn’t go into the system for whatever reason, Reid will probably remember,” Emily said. She drummed her fingers on the table. “Reid did say his donation was anonymous—his information wasn’t available to the general public.”

Morgan opened his hands. “But even anonymous donations have records attached to them.” 

“Yes, exactly—we get a list of people who have access to those limited records, bounce it off the list of people we met in 2007 who interacted with Reid—”

“We’ll have our unsub,” Rossi said. 

“I’ll get the lists we need to Garcia so they’ll be ready when we hit the ground,” Morgan said. “Where do we want to start? Two of us to the local station and two to meet Hotch and Reid?” He looked between them.

Emily leaned forward in her chair across the table. “Garcia said Hotch wants us there. She didn’t say we were invited in by local PD. Maybe it’s better for us not to go to the station until we know we’re welcome. The last thing we want to do is piss off the locals by storming in when a couple of agents are involved in something.” 

JJ nodded. “Emily’s right. We need to find Hotch and group with him about what he expects and how we can help. Taking the reins from the locals without an invitation will cause a bureaucratic nightmare. If Hotch hasn’t alerted Strauss, he’s going to be in hot water for calling us in without having the proper paperwork filed.”

Morgan brought his hand to his temple, shaking his head. “Somebody left a head in Reid’s hotel room and wrote a homophobic slur on his wall in blood. I don’t give a damn about any paperwork, and neither should anybody else.” 

Rossi checked his watch. “Hopefully they’ll be free by the time we get there.”

…

Aaron stood, wearing his blood-soaked shirt and basketball shorts, in the lobby of the hotel, behind the sofa where Spencer sat. Aaron’s hand pressed into the back of the sofa just enough to make the cushion protrude so Spencer could feel his presence. Spencer’s eyes were closed, his temples pressed between his hands. He had a headache. So did Aaron. 

The television was on. Aaron had turned it off twice now, but both times, someone else had taken the remote and turned it back on. The third time he’d reached for the remote, Spencer had whispered, “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” so he stopped. The lights flickered with age, and Aaron wondered if Spencer could hear those, too. 

The place was  _ crawling _ with cops. 

They’d given their statement to no fewer than three different police officers. Spencer repeated his story almost word for word for each one. 

The television flashed a newsreel, a shot of the hotel from the outside, and a reporter said, “Police have reported a decapitated head and some written hate speech left on the wall of this Atlanta hotel. We have no new information at this time about the occupants of the hotel room or the victim whose head was discovered, but a headless body in the alley behind the hotel may be a match—”

Aaron picked up the remote and turned it off. In a few hours, it would matter what the press knew and didn’t know, but right now, he didn’t need to hear someone else repeat back to him what he had just witnessed and what played over and over again in his head. 

Where he sat on the sofa in his flannel pajamas, Spencer tugged on the collar of his shirt. The top button had come unclasped. As he fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, the fresh hickey at the base of his neck flashed a couple of times. “Your button,” Aaron mumbled. Spencer raised his eyebrows, glanced down, and then hastily replaced the button, whispering an apology. Blood caked his hair to the side of his face. The stain ran down his temple, almost into his eye, and finished on the collar of his shirt. 

CSI came downstairs. Aaron looked up at them. He wanted to approach—but he couldn’t leave Spencer’s line of sight, which was greatly reduced without his glasses. If they got separated, Spencer wouldn’t be able to drive, nor would he be able to identify anyone who hurt him. Aaron’s heartbeat quickened at the thought of the unsub getting Spencer alone without his glasses. He dug his fingers in deeper to the couch, fingers whitening at the knuckles. 

The leader of the CSI team approached him. “We’re still investigating upstairs, but we’re working as quickly as we can.”

“When will we be able to change clothes?”

“Soon.” 

“When will Detective Farraday be here?”

“No one has been able to reach him yet.” 

“I’ve called in my team. They’re on their way. They should be here within two hours. I need to speak to someone who can show me where they should set up for this investigation.” 

The man nodded. “I understand, Agent Hotchner. I'll do what I can to get you in touch with someone. Dr. Reid?” Spencer lifted his head, eyes fluttering, and he squinted up at the CSI man. “I need to swab some of that blood off of your face to compare it to the head, the wall, and the body we’ve recovered.” Spencer nodded. “Once we’re done investigating, I’ll make arrangements for you to take a shower,” he promised as he used a long swab to dab some of the dried blood off of Spencer’s face. “Agent Hotchner, you said you fired three rounds?”

“That’s correct.” 

“We’ve only found two bullets. We’re still searching for the third.” 

“When can I have my gun back?” 

“As soon as we’re done processing it as evidence.” He bagged the swab. “Thank you. I appreciate your patience, agents. The head and the body are off at the ME. Once we have any answers, you’ll be the first to know.” 

He left them, Spencer sitting there, Aaron standing behind him. Spencer gazed down at his hands in his lap. He had washed them, but someone had gotten his attention before he was able to finish, so there were still rust-colored deposits under his fingernails. “You can sit down, you know,” Spencer said. Aaron blinked. He hadn’t said very much since the police finished taking his statement, looking pensive and pained from all the stimulus. “You’re not going to get answers any faster while you’re standing there.”

_ He has a point. _ With a sigh, Aaron walked around the couch and sat on the opposite end. He wanted to sit closer, but he couldn’t. There were too many eyes on them. “Garcia said JJ found your extra glasses. She’s bringing them with her.” Spencer mumbled his thanks. “Are you alright?” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows and glanced over at Aaron. “Yeah, I—I’m fine, I just…” He rubbed his temples, and then he dropped his hands into his lap, rubbing his knees as he spoke. “Why did he take my glasses?” 

Aaron frowned. “Probably to make you feel powerless and blind, like you do right now.” Spencer had asked him not to stray; he was afraid, in this unfamiliar environment, and he wasn’t able to protect himself. By taking his glasses, the man had also stripped him of his confidence. 

“But he didn’t just  _ take _ them. He was  _ wearing _ them. I have a really strong prescription, Hotch. Anybody who doesn’t need glasses wouldn’t be able to get around with them. There’s no way he would’ve been able to scale down that wall wearing them if he wasn’t severely vision-impaired.” 

Shifting his jaw, Aaron considered. Spencer was right. Nobody with twenty-twenty vision could wear Spencer’s glasses easily. “We’ll know more when the team gets here, and we can review all the evidence.” Aaron didn’t have an easy answer; he didn’t have any answers at all. It felt surreal, somehow; he’d woken from a dead sleep, the most peaceful sleep he’d had in weeks, to hear Spencer  _ screaming. _

At first, he’d thought it was a nightmare. But the screaming didn’t stop. He felt the bed next to him—empty—and sat bolt upright to see Spencer on the other bed and the figure looming over him. The rest was a blur, holding the shirt to Spencer’s face and smearing the blood everywhere, turning to see the head on the wall and the words just above it, Spencer’s bare whisper of, “ _ What does it say? _ ” and the reluctance inside of him as he squeezed Spencer and read aloud the slur written on the wall in blood. 

Spencer shifted to face him. “Are you alright?” 

He ground his teeth. “Yes.”  _ No, I’m not, I woke up and you weren’t there and you were covered in blood and you were screaming and— _ He pressed one hand to his temple, gazing out across the lobby as he tried to tune out the sound of bullets firing in his head. “I’ll be better when we’re able to get a working profile.” 

“I’m working on the geographic profile, but until we have an ID on our victim, it’s going to be hard to triangulate a location, and even then…”

“It would be easier if we had another victim.” 

Spencer sucked the inside of his cheek. “Yeah.” He crossed his legs on the sofa. “Your heart rate was normal.”

Aaron blinked. “What?”

“Your pulse. I checked it when I got up to use the bathroom. It was normal. I’m not worried anymore.”  _ He was really concerned. _ Aaron’s brow furrowed as he looked at Spencer. Spencer’s knee bobbed anxiously on the ground. In his flannel pajamas and mismatched crew socks, he looked so young and small. Aaron felt the same way—small and helpless. He didn’t like it at all. He spent a long time building himself up to never feel small and helpless again, the way he had always felt as a child, but he was stripped here in his ratty basketball shorts and his stained, oversized T-shirt with his rice-scarred knees showing, surrounded by cops who had even fewer answers than he did. Spencer rubbed his hands on his knees back and forth, rocking on the couch. “Why do you think someone would do this?” 

_ I have no idea. _ Aaron glanced over at him. “Why do you?” 

He kept rubbing. “I—I guess I’m not sure. If someone were following me, you’d think he would strike at my home—not waste time trying to catch me in Georgia.” Aaron nodded in agreement. “But the odds that this is random are astronomically small, given the circumstances.”  _ It couldn’t have been random.  _ Aaron knew that, and he also knew he didn’t have to say it; Spencer knew it, too. A random attacker wouldn’t have wasted time vaulting up the side of the building to climb in the second story window—if scaring people was his goal, he would’ve chosen a room on the ground floor. 

And a random attacker wouldn’t have left a slur in the taunt. Someone who wanted to see his name in headlines could’ve done this to anyone, without the slur. “I think it’s fair to assume you were targeted.” Someone wanted to scare and disempower Spencer  _ personally, _ and was willing to go to great lengths and take great risks to do it. 

“You’re right. He wouldn’t have risked coming into the room with you there if it was a random target. Someone busting into a room where you’re sleeping is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid—that he escaped was just good luck.”  _ It was a good tactical decision. _ The unsub had positioned Spencer between himself and Aaron; he knew Aaron wouldn’t risk taking a shot at him as long as Spencer was sitting up in the bed between them, and by the time Aaron had covered Spencer’s body and started to fire shots, the unsub was gone out the window where he had entered. Aaron couldn’t pursue when Spencer was covered in blood. He had to stop to try to help him. By the time he’d realized Spencer wasn’t bleeding, the unsub had enough of a headstart to be a whole block away. There was no chance Aaron could successfully give chase. “I just don’t see a motive.” 

“Somebody’s angry with you.”

“But not too angry, or I’d be dead. I was asleep. Killing me would’ve been easy.” Aaron’s stomach sank. Spencer was right, and he  _ hated _ how right he was, how vulnerable they had been. 

“Do you know anyone who would have a grudge against you? Classmates, maybe? Or someone whose research or theories you disproved?” 

Spencer frowned. “The list of people whose theories I disproved is going to be a pretty extensive one. I’m sort of known for reprocessing complex mathematics and, uh, making entire theses obsolete.”

Aaron raised his eyebrows.  _ Of course you are. _ He hadn’t imagined many people would dislike Spencer; after all, he was a nerdy FBI agent who saved lives and learned things. He had forgotten that nerds often had in-fighting, and in academia, they could be savage. “We’ll cross reference people in the Atlanta area with Garcia.”

“That will be a much narrower pool. A lot of the people I’ve done research with aren’t even American.” Spencer kept sucking the inside of his cheek. “But… frankly, academics aren’t exactly known for having the brute strength required to sever a head. That will narrow the list, too.” 

“Would you need brute strength,” Aaron asked, “if you were good enough at math?”

Spencer considered. “You’d have to have access to the right tools to use appropriate leverage. Once the ME report comes back on what they used to sever it, it’ll be more clear if it was brute force or calculated.” Aaron nodded again. They had an ocean of uncertainties without the evidence even being processed yet; theorizing before they had something concrete would do nothing but send them down dead end streets. “I think he said my name,” Spencer murmured as an afterthought. Aaron glanced at him, asking for clarification without saying a word. “I thought I was dreaming, so it might have been in my head, but… I think he said my name.”

Fury tingled in the pit of Aaron’s stomach. He tried to stifle it, but each time, it bubbled back up to the surface, boiling water releasing steam into the air. Keeping a clear head was going to be difficult; each time he closed his eyes, he saw that man looming over Spencer’s bed, saw Spencer pedaling away from him holding up a pillow in an attempt to defend himself, heard him  _ screaming, _ and the terror flushed through him all over again. 

A hand touched the back of his forearm. Aaron’s whole body flinched. Spencer snapped back. “Sorry, I just—I had to know you were still there.” 

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Aaron trailed off. Everything looked a little bleary through his eyes. He rubbed them to try to clear his vision. Jet lag was finally catching up to him; he hadn’t had a wholly sound night’s sleep since he had left Quantico, and now, working a case without having a day to sleep in his own bed was going to wear him to the bone. “I’m just a little tense.” 

“A little?” Spencer repeated dubiously. Aaron shot him a look, but he couldn’t see it, so he didn’t respond. Spencer resumed rubbing his hands over the knees of his pajamas. “I hope they let us change clothes before everyone gets here.” He kept fidgeting with the flannel. “Morgan always makes fun of my pajamas.” 

Aaron raised his eyebrows. “I think he’ll probably be more concerned with the blood on your face than your pajamas.” 

Spencer made a thick noise at the back of his throat, digging his fingernails into his pajama pants. “I’m trying not to think of how many bloodborne pathogens are probably going into my body right now.” He reached up to touch his hair but drew his hand back when it came away sticky from the matted clumps of blood in his hair. He grimaced and shuddered. His hands landed on the back of his neck and pinched there.  _ Sensory hell, _ Aaron remembered,  _ sticky is sensory hell. _

He stood. Spencer lifted his head. “Where are you going?” He pushed himself forward to the edge of the sofa, ready to try his best to follow Aaron even if he wasn’t invited. 

Aaron offered a hand. “C’mon. There’s a bathroom. We can at least get some of that out of your hair.” 

Unfocused eyes found his face, and he placed his hand in Aaron’s, letting Aaron pull him to his feet. Aaron started toward the men’s bathroom. Spencer stumbled over the coffee table. “Jesus Christ—” Aaron caught him by the bicep, keeping him from landing unceremoniously on the floor, but all of the buzzing cops looked at him before resuming their speech. Fortunately, Spencer couldn’t see them. “Thanks.” He took Aaron by the arm, forfeiting whatever little was left of his dignity to follow him through the crowded hotel lobby into the men’s restroom. 

Silence filled the room. The urinals were vacant and the single stall stood open. Yellow lights flickered overhead. “It’s loud in here,” Spencer mumbled. 

Aaron couldn’t hear a thing. “Quieter than out there.” He secured the deadbolt on the door behind them. They were alone. Leading the way over to the tallest of the three filthy sinks, he wiped it off with a wet paper towel. Hard water residue clung to it. “Can you see how dirty this sink is?” he asked as he lined it with paper towels.

Spencer blanched. “No.”

“Good.” Aaron turned on the faucet and waited for the water to warm. Their voices echoed in the small room, and so did the sound of the running water. “Come here. Bend over.” Aaron’s bare feet touched the dusty floor with broken tiles, dirt collecting underfoot. The dust clung to the underside of Spencer’s socks. Spencer shuffled forward and obeyed, lowering his head into the sink. Aaron cupped his hands under the warm running water. 

He dumped it over Spencer’s head. Wetting his hands, he combed his fingers through the matted locks. The water ran rust-colored down the drain. Clumps of agglutinated blood clung to his hair. Aaron plucked at them. Spencer winced. “Sorry.” He kept one hand on the base of Spencer’s neck, trying to rub some of the tension from him, but it didn’t seem to help. The bloodclots broke up beneath his careful touch and rushed down the drain.  _ This would be easier with a comb. _ Aaron didn’t have a damn thing on him; his pockets were empty. With dull fingernails, he scratched Spencer’s scalp. 

It had brought him comfort yesterday, but that seemed like a century ago. 

As he did it, Spencer relaxed. His breathing pattern slowed. His grip on the sink loosened. Aaron kept pouring the water over his head and carding his fingers through his hair until the water ran clear down the drain, no longer tinged with blood. “Here.” Spencer stood upright. Water trickled down his neck and shoulders, flowing down beneath the collar of his shirt. His face was somber, and the droplets on his cheeks almost looked like tears. 

Aaron wetted a paper towel to wipe away the stain from his temple and his cheek and his neck. Spencer shivered. “Thank you.” Wherever Aaron saw blood, he wiped Spencer’s skin clean. 

His sodden hair dribbled rivulets down his person and all over the floor. Aaron emptied what was left in the paper towel holder and tried to wring out and sop up some of the water. “Does that feel better?” he asked. He dropped the soiled paper towels in the overflowing trash can, which looked like it hadn’t been emptied in weeks. 

Soft eyes found his. “Yeah.” He squinted at Aaron’s face, like he was trying to make out the finer details. Aaron leaned forward, nearer, until all of the wrinkles around Spencer’s eyes relaxed and he could see without hindrance. Their breaths wafted across one another’s lips. Spencer lifted a hand and cupped Aaron’s cheek. “Can I kiss you again?” 

He was surprised Spencer asked. He had expected him to take what he wanted without question. But since he did ask, Aaron nodded, and Spencer leaned forward, pressing their lips together. His arms wrapped around Aaron’s shoulders. Aaron pulled him close by the waist, large hands feeling up Spencer’s body. Through the flannel, he felt every protruding bone in his back. One hand snaked upward, burying itself into Spencer’s hair; the other held onto him from behind.

Spencer kissed him with an open, earnest mouth. Aaron nuzzled back into it sweetly, tenderly; all of the anger and fear inside of him softened into putty when Spencer kissed him. His tension became malleable beneath Spencer’s hands, formed into whatever Spencer desired. He parted his own lips, relishing in the sensation of Spencer’s breath against his cheeks. Their foreheads brushed, and then their noses, and Aaron collected Spencer into his arms and hugged him tightly. 

When he smelled Spencer’s familiar scent, he could imagine they were still in bed together, still curled in one another’s embrace, and soon enough he would awaken from this nightmare and he would feel unsettled and maybe he would tell Spencer about it as he touched his soft hair or maybe he would keep it to himself and it would become a bad memory and they would board the flight to DC and go home—

But Spencer’s hair smelled faintly of blood. 

Burying his face into the crook of Aaron’s neck, Spencer sighed. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.” 

“I wish we were somewhere else.” 

“You mean a super sketchy public bathroom that hasn’t had hand soap since 2008  _ wasn’t _ your first choice of destination?”

In spite of himself, Aaron smiled and shook his head. He pulled back from the hug, wishing more than anything he could cling to Spencer longer, long enough to make himself believe this wasn’t real. He brushed Spencer’s damp hair back out of his eyes. “We’re going to catch the man who did this.” 

Spencer blinked. He looked almost surprised. “I know.” Aaron’s brow furrowed. “I’m fine. I told you. You make me feel safe. I’m going to be fine as long as I’m with you.” Spencer tilted his head as he touched Aaron’s cheek. “Are you telling me that, or are you actually trying to tell yourself that?” 

_ Profilers really are the worst. _ Aaron had never understood Haley when she got so upset with him for profiling her, but now… Karma was a bitch. His jaw shifted. “Probably both,” he admitted. “I won’t leave you,” he promised.

“I know.” 

Reluctantly, Aaron took a step away from him, and Spencer took his arm. He closed his eyes as they walked; perhaps the blur of colors complicated things for him, or perhaps it was a show of trust. Aaron unlocked the bathroom door, and they emerged back under the yellow lights of the hotel lobby, waiting for the team to arrive and the investigation to begin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


	8. Chapter 8

“Fear of change is like standing under a hot shower and knowing the moment you turn it off, you’ll be freezing cold.” -Erik Tanghe

…

Spencer’s hair was almost dry by the time Detective Farraday entered the hotel lobby. Aaron stood, and so did he, squinting across the lobby to try to make out the fuzzy shapes of men plodding around in front of him, trying to separate body from body and uniform from uniform. “Detective,” Aaron said, confirming the man’s identity, and Spencer relaxed his eyes; all of the squinting made his head throb. 

“Agent Hotchner. I remember you. You worked the Tobias Hankel case with us.” He had a gruff voice. “I would say it’s nice to see you again, but given the circumstances…” 

“You remember Dr. Reid.”

“Eh.” The detective waved him off. The mannerisms of southerners were different, Spencer reminded himself, and he was used to being dismissed. “CSI says they’re holding your belongings. Let’s go upstairs, and I’ll give you both the chance to get changed before we go over the crime scene.” He walked away in long strides. Spencer took Aaron’s elbow again. 

He slammed into the coffee table with his shins, pitching forward for a second time. Aaron dove after him and grabbed him by the elbows, scarcely catching him from falling. Spencer’s hands made fists in Aaron’s shirt to try to regain his balance. He staggered back to his feet. His face flushed in shame. “You alright?” Aaron asked. 

The detective stood a few feet away, arms crossed and a frown set deep on his face. “What are you, blind or something?” 

Spencer licked his lips, preparing to explain, but Aaron said, “The unsub took his glasses,” in a voice leaking impatience—more than he ordinarily would’ve allotted toward someone helping them work a case. Spencer’s brow furrowed. Aaron didn’t need to break down their relationship with local law enforcement, especially not on Spencer’s behalf.  _ He probably meant nothing by it.  _

The detective lifted his head. “Oh, damn. Let me just put my foot in my mouth real fast. You alright on the stairs, kid?” 

“I’ll manage. Technically this staircase isn’t very safe for anyone. Research done by the Canadian Center of Occupational Health and Safety indicates that steep, narrow staircases like this one with poor lighting increase the rate of falls exponentially.” Detective Farraday made a noise at the back of his throat, and Spencer decided not to elaborate; it was too early in the morning (or, depending on how one looked at it, too late at night) for him to be harassing the people around him with facts. Keeping one hand on the guardrail and one on Aaron so he wouldn’t lose him in the sea of uniforms, Spencer followed the detective upstairs. 

The door to their hotel room stood ajar. CSI shuffled in and out with plastic baggies. At the mouth of the door, Detective Farraday stood. Spencer hung back against the wall, trying his best to stay out of the way. His presence wouldn’t benefit anything. He couldn’t analyze the crime scene without being able to  _ see _ the evidence. “Dr. Reid—” The CSI leader approached them again, greeting Detective Farraday and Aaron. “We found shards of what looks to be polycarbonate all over the floor. It looks like he busted the lenses out of your glasses before he took them.” 

“Hope you weren’t expecting to get them back in one piece,” Detective Farraday said. Spencer raised his eyebrows, pressing a sheepish, grimacing smile onto his face. The ironic remark may have made him laugh under different circumstances, but now, he just wanted to scrub his body down under scalding water until his skin was flushed and raw and then put on some clean clothes and see himself in the mirror with his glasses to know exactly how hellish he looked. 

As the detective entered the room, he blew a low whistle between his lips. “The devil really went down to Georgia on this one, huh.” 

Spencer brightened. “You know, the words of that song are really interesting, because they imply one of two things—either the devil is a northerner, or Georgia is somehow in a lower circle of hell than the one where Satan lives. Either of these would be fascinating premises to examine under the lens of linguistics and especially when analyzed alongside other top hit songs from the twentieth century—”

“Reid.” Spencer stopped at Aaron’s single spoken word. 

The detective looked at him oddly, tilting his head. “I do remember you. You’re the annoying bastard who got kidnapped.” Aaron’s whole body tensed. Spencer squeezed his arm  _ hard _ , biting the tip of his own tongue. “Glad to see you’re still a happy little know-it-all.” 

He didn’t mean any harm. Spencer pursed his lips and nodded. The blunt nature of southern men always caught him by surprise, but he wasn’t offended. Aaron, on the other hand, didn’t relax, even as Spencer eased his grip on his arm. The detective didn’t notice a difference in his mannerisms. “Hey, Rob, are you done with these suitcases yet?”

“No, I actually—”

“Well, the rest of the BAU is going to be here soon, and I can’t take these two agents into the station in their blood-stained pajamas.” He collected their suitcases anyway, against the advice of the irked CSI leader who did not argue but wore a displeased face. “Here you go. I talked with the manager and got you another room across the hall, so you can get cleaned up before your team gets here. I missed a call from the medical examiner, so I’m going to be down the hall. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you.” 

Spencer pushed the diffident smile onto his face again. “Thanks.” Aaron grunted a word to him, which could have been a thanks but was said in such a sour tone that the meaning was lost. Aaron opened the door to the new room, pushing it closed behind him and locking all the locks. Spencer let go of his arm as Aaron made his way to the windows and locked those, too. “It’s interesting how gruffness can be a show of comradery in the American south,” Spencer remarked. 

Aaron was stiff. “You think that was affectionate?” 

“What did you think it was?” 

“Completely out of line.” 

Spencer placed his suitcase on one of the beds and opened it. “Honestly, that doesn’t even crack the top ten meanest things a cop has ever said to me in the field.” He squinted down at his assortment of clothes. He could make out the colors, sort of, but not as much as he wanted to. “In cultures like these, actions speak louder than words or mannerisms. Practical help and generosity are valued far more than, say, superficial kindness. Whereas in other populations, especially those areas where language barriers come into play, the superficial kindness is vital, since sometimes participants require smiles and perceived happiness to portray themselves as non-threatening to someone who otherwise can’t understand their words.” He picked up a sweater vest. “But miscommunications happen between the two groups when someone from a more demonstrative culture misinterprets a more ambiguous person as being hostile, or when a less expressive person thinks an effusive person is feigning friendship for personal gain.” 

On the other bed, Aaron mirrored Spencer, also opening his suitcase. He stared into it, but he didn’t start picking through it. “What other things have people said to you?” 

Spencer avoided the question. “I wouldn’t have gone into law enforcement if I didn’t expect to be bullied.” Aaron lifted his head to look at him. “This field attracts dominant personalities. It gives aggressive people access to weapons and power that some of them shouldn’t have. The rate of reported domestic violence among male law enforcement officers is forty percent—and we know that domestic violence and other crimes against women are gravely underreported, so the actual figure is probably much higher.” Spencer grabbed a button down to put under his sweater vest and some jeans. It would feel good to get out of his bloody pajamas. “Law enforcement officers are bullies. I knew that when I started. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I’ve been around bullies my whole life. I decided I would do more good here than anywhere else.” 

“That doesn’t make it acceptable.” Spencer shrugged it off. He didn’t think it was a big deal; Detective Farraday clearly hadn’t had hostile intentions, and they had more important things to do than ruminate on his brusque words. “It really doesn’t bother you?” 

He looked back up at Aaron. “No. It really doesn’t.” He folded up his clothes neatly. “I’m going to take a shower.” He needed to use real soap on his body. Once he had scrubbed up and had his glasses and a cup of coffee (or two, or three) and a compilation of evidence, he could sit, go over everything they had, and start a profile with the team, and extra sets of eyes would help crystallize everything, and it would feel more distant, more like it had happened to someone else and not to him and he was just a profiler and an agent who was going to catch the guy, and he wasn’t a material witness who had awoken to a figure leaning over his bed pouring blood on his face like a cloud spitting fat raindrops and screamed for Aaron and lay underneath him on the bed as he fired shots and the window shattered and he couldn’t  _ see anything— _

He still couldn’t see anything, but it was quieter here. The voices of the crowd were distant through the walls, and with the activity, the other patrons had mostly vacated their rooms to let the police work, so he couldn’t hear any of those loud televisions. The only one near was Aaron, and that was the way Spencer liked it. 

He entered the bathroom and left the door slightly ajar, just a crack of light bleeding through, so he could hear in case something happened. He didn’t want to be caught unaware again. Through the crack, he peered out, and he could make out the fuzzy outline of Aaron’s body against the window. He was safe as long as Aaron was there.

Turning on the shower, he stepped beneath the hot steam. It stung. He didn’t turn it down. Hotter temperatures would more effectively neutralize the bacteria. He squirted shampoo into his hand and scrubbed his fingernails into his scalp, digging them in until it hurt and raking the shedding skin from himself. 

Aaron had saved him the horror of finding blood clots matted into his own hair. It wasn’t sticky anymore; he no longer felt his stomach churn at the thought of touching his hair or his neck or his face. He lathered up the washcloth in soap and scoured his skin. No grime came away. He could still  _ feel it _ . It wasn’t there, but the sensation of the blood tingling where the droplet landed, trickling down his temple and cheek… He shuddered in spite of the heat. 

“You’re going to burn yourself.” Aaron’s voice surprised him. 

He licked his lips.  _ That’s the goal.  _ “How do you know?”

“The steam looks like you started a fire in there. Turn it down.” 

Technically, Spencer had no obligation to answer the order; they weren’t at work, and Aaron wasn’t using his  _ Hotch _ voice. It was the same tender tone Spencer had heard yesterday, which held a world of kindness he never would’ve expected from his stern boss. Aaron said it because he cared personally, and perhaps because of that, Spencer took the handle and twisted it so his skin no longer scalded. 

When he stepped out of the shower, he took the towel and vigorously dried his body. His skin ached and burned and stung where he dragged the towel over it. Pawing at his hair, he wrestled with it until it no longer dripped or sprayed and only held slight dampness. 

He put on his antiperspirant, the cinnamon kind JJ picked out for him (he wouldn’t admit it, but his entire selection of personal hygiene equipment was chosen by JJ, except for his toothpaste, which was bubblegum flavor Colgate for kids with fluoride), and then he put on his briefs and his dark jeans. Poking around through his clothes, he searched for an undershirt, but… 

He didn’t remember grabbing one. 

“Um, Aaron?” From the other side of the door, Aaron grunted at him, the preoccupied sound he made when his mind was busy. “I forgot to grab an undershirt. Do you mind?” 

“You forgot something?” Spencer’s brow quirked at the question, but then he heard the slight lilt to Aaron’s voice— _ He’s teasing me, _ he realized, feeling light at the thought. 

“Yeah. I did. I’m very forgetful,” Spencer joked in return. Aaron snorted a quiet sound, and then he pushed his hand through the crack in the doorway, holding one of Spencer’s carefully folded shirts. “Thanks.” Aaron didn’t look through the crack; even now, he didn’t take anything from Spencer without his explicit permission. 

Spencer wormed his way into the shirt and then buttoned up his long sleeve and slipped into his sweater vest, tucking everything in the way he liked it. Beneath his layers of clothes, he was safe. He didn’t look so skinny and weird like this. Picking up his soiled towel and washcloth, he put them in the hamper. He padded out of the bathroom back to the bed where he had placed his things, and he pulled out two crew socks—one with foxes and one with William Shakespeares. 

“Why do you wear mismatched socks?” 

People had mocked this trait in Spencer before, but it occurred to him at the sound of Aaron’s gentle, probing voice—no one had ever asked him why. He lifted his gaze from the bed spread to stare across the room at the blurry form. Aaron had replaced his bloody shirt and worn shorts with his usual attire, his slacks and white button down. His hands occupied themselves over his throat; Spencer couldn’t make it out, just a haze of colors, but he assumed Aaron was tying his tie. “My mom told me it brings good luck.” He kept his socks paired at random. “And I need all the good luck I can get.” 

Aaron slipped into his suit coat and then drew nearer to him. “You don’t seem to have very good luck.” The thin carpet muffled the sounds of his footfalls. He held out something to Spencer; Spencer squinted but couldn’t make out the pattern to identify it until Aaron lifted the collar of his shirt and threaded it through. He tied it with a frown upon his lips and tucked it down inside the front of Spencer’s sweater vest. 

“Won’t they notice it’s your tie?” 

“I’ve never worn it before.” Aaron patted down his clothing. “I’m a bit of a tie enthusiast.” 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same tie twice. Except…” 

“I have one funeral tie.” 

That was the one Spencer had seen twice; Aaron had worn it to Haley’s funeral and to Emily’s fake funeral. “Why?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Spencer opened his mouth, but Aaron hurriedly added, “That is not your invitation to start guessing,” and he closed his mouth into a sheepish smile, wondering how Aaron had read him so easily. “Do you have shoes that weren’t mutilated by Gideon’s dog?” 

Spencer nodded. “I always pack two pairs now.” Once, during his first year at the BAU, he’d dived into a canal after a child who looked like she was drowning, and he had emerged barefoot with a miffed little girl who insisted she was fine. The current had stolen his shoes, and he’d spent the rest of the case limping around in Morgan’s shoes, who was a full two sizes larger than him. Spencer licked his lips and began to fill his pockets, identifying things as he felt them and placing them where they belonged. Aaron’s stare didn’t leave his face. Spencer donned his belt and holstered his weapon. At the scrutiny, all of the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He tucked his keys and his wallet into their respective pockets. 

His fingers picked up his chapstick. He reached to stuff it into his pocket beside his wallet, where it belonged, but then he hesitated. Twisting the cap between his fingers, his gaze darted back up to Aaron’s face. The finer details were fuzzy, but he was near enough for Spencer to recognize him by his eyebrows and his nose and his cheekbones and his  _ smell _ which filled Spencer with delight. His hand toyed with the chapstick, strawberry flavored, Burt's Bees brand (though he had peeled off the label while in deep thought one day, so now it was just a yellow tube), also picked out by JJ. “Do you want to kiss me before or after I put this on?” 

“I was planning on after.” 

Spencer uncapped it and applied the chapstick, and then he stuck it into his pocket where it belonged. Large hands framed his face, and he smiled at the sweet touch—a real, large smile. Their lips met, less hesitant with each time they kissed again. One hand found its way into his hair. Spencer went weak at the knees. His whole body eased at the sensation of fingers massaging his scalp, carding through his hair. He melted into the kiss. His arms rested on Aaron’s shoulders. 

He had never liked being touched, but he didn’t want Aaron to stop touching him; now that he welcomed the sensation, it no longer filled him with apprehension, but rather with anticipation. Through his suit, Spencer felt Aaron’s body, the heat radiating off of him, the curves to his musculature.  _ He’s so warm. _ Aaron broke the kiss, but he lingered, breathing into Spencer’s mouth. Something on his breath tasted odd, not like it had yesterday. Spencer’s eyes flickered open. When they were this close, close enough to touch, he could make out the minutiae of his face—the pores, the wrinkles, the stray hairs. A slight flush tinged his cheeks. His dark eyes were glossy, and a hint of perspiration lingered on his forehead. 

Spencer’s eyebrows knitted together in concern.  _ Is he sick? _ He lifted the back of his hand toward Aaron’s forehead; Aaron blinked and pulled away in response, like he expected to be backhanded, but he stilled when Spencer pursued him and let him press his hand there. “What are you doing?”

“You feel warm.” 

“I’m fine, Spencer,” Aaron assured. 

“Can I take your temperature?” Spencer asked. He kept the full works of a first aid kit in his go bag; he found they were often very useful in the field, since he worked with a bunch of martyrs who typically refused medical attention unless they were actively in stages of death.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.” 

Reluctantly, Spencer let the matter drop. If Aaron felt sick, he knew himself well enough to know when he was pushing his limits. He slid his feet into his extra shoes, the ones without the massive hole torn in them by the dog.  _ Maybe I should try to look in the back of his throat, or discreetly get his temperature… _ He had no idea how he could do either of those things without Aaron noticing. He had to trust Aaron’s judgment. 

A series of sharp knocks rapped at the door. Aaron went to answer it, and Spencer flanked him, his hand finding his arm and holding to it, just in case Aaron forgot about him. “Detective?” Aaron greeted the blurry figure. “News from the ME? Do we need to head to their office?”

He shook his head. “No, no—change of plans, agents.” Aaron gave a glance at Spencer, but Spencer wasn’t near enough to read his expression or Detective Farraday’s. “The blood on the wall and on you does match the victim.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“Not yet—we’re forwarding the DNA to your analyst to run it through Vicap.”

“So what’s the problem?” 

He pulled himself up taller, as if to confront an aggressive suspect. “The recovered blood is HIV positive. The ME recommended getting you both to the ER immediately so the doctors can issue a series of drugs to prevent transmission and screen you for possible pre-existing conditions.” Spencer’s heart clipped at a higher rate in his chest. “I’ve got an officer available to drive you, if you need.” 

“I can find the hospital,” Aaron said. His dark eyes landed on Spencer once again, who swallowed hard. “We’ll meet you at the station when we’re done. My team will be here soon.”

“I’ll touch base with them and show them where to set up.” 

Aaron gave the detective a curt nod and strode past him. Spencer gave an anxious, “Thank you, detective,” and staggered after Aaron; usually he had no problem keeping stride with him, but now he couldn’t see, and everything was a smear of color and a flash of light to his eyes. “Hotch,  _ slow down— _ ” He stumbled after him, and Aaron obediently slowed his pace. “Thanks,” he mumbled. At the mouth of the staircase, he secured one hand on the rail and followed him down the steps, taking care not to lose his footing. “Don’t let me run into the coffee table this time.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The lobby had begun to clear of cops as they finished sorting out the excitement of the case. Aaron led the way out of the hotel. In the distance, the navy sky had begun to streak with gray, shades only slightly paler than the backdrop of night; sunrise was still an hour away. Spencer’s eyes tried to adjust to the shadows, but with less light, his visual acuity decreased even more. 

“Curb.”

“What?” 

Spencer lurched off of the sidewalk. Aaron whirled around to catch him. His hands clawed at Aaron’s shoulders, trying to catch himself before he kissed the pavement. Aaron grimaced and caught him, pushing him back up onto his feet. “Sorry,” Aaron said. Spencer fluttered his eyelashes. “Clearly I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s okay.” They were, after all, on their way to the hospital, so it wouldn’t be  _ too _ inconvenient if he broke his nose on the way in. “I can tell you statistics about the rate of HIV transmission with nonsexual blood to blood contact if that will make you feel better,” he offered. 

Aaron started across the parking lot, carefully navigating between the parking curbs, watching to ensure Spencer didn’t get his ankles caught up in them. Spencer didn’t expect an affirmative answer, but to his surprise, Aaron invited, “Go ahead.” 

Spencer brightened. “Well, typically, HIV is transmitted through mucosal membranes or microtears in the body—that’s how sex leads to the majority of new cases. But vertical transmission, that is mother to fetus, and blood to blood contact also comprise portions of the figures. Blood to blood contact technically comprises about twenty-five percent of new HIV cases in the western world, but it’s also important to consider that intravenous drug users make up the huge bulk of that number. The opioid epidemic made HIV in addict populations skyrocket. Only an incredibly tiny fraction of cases—like, so tiny that I don’t have a number on it—are borne from skin contact with infected blood. Even if one of us had an open wound, our blood would be pulsing outward, which would make the chances of infected blood getting in incredibly slim, and the volume of blood would likely be too small to cause HIV. Now let’s compound with the fact that HIV can only survive outside the body for a short time and the unsub had to transport the blood from a block away to put it on me and on the wall—Basically, the chances of one of us catching HIV from  _ that _ are practically nonexistent. The ME recommended it solely as a precautionary measure; I highly doubt she sees either of us as being high-risk for transmission.” 

The lights on the Suburban flashed as Aaron unlocked it, and Spencer climbed into the passenger side. “Does that help?” The door closed behind him. 

Climbing into the driver’s side, Aaron slammed his door closed and buckled his seat belt. “It does, actually.” Aaron’s fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly. He cranked the vehicle.

“You’re still really tense.” 

Aaron’s body crackled with  _ heat, _ not physical heat but emotional heat; all the turmoil swirled inside of him. Under the emotions, Aaron completely shut down. He compartmentalized and shoved everything into a box and avoided giving his feelings a moment’s consideration at all costs. Spencer understood this tactic well. He did the same thing. “Yeah,” Aaron muttered. He shifted gears and strung out one arm against the headrest of Spencer’s seat, looking behind him as he reversed out of the parking lot. 

Spencer hesitated. He didn’t want to overstep his bounds. But he also wanted to bring some comfort—as much as he could, anyway. He placed his hand on Aaron’s knee, half-expecting to be shaken off in response, but instead his hand lingered there, and beneath his touch, the muscles in Aaron’s thigh forcibly relaxed. He drove to the exit. “Which way?” Aaron asked. 

The question struck him. “Are you planning on using me as a GPS?”

“That was my intention, yes.”

“Usually that would work—” He had memorized maps of almost all the major US cities and always took a good look at local maps before cases so he didn’t risk getting turned around and separated from the team. “But, um, I can’t  _ see _ anything—I can’t read street signs. I actually can’t even read the speedometer, and with your history of car chases, that really freaks me out.” He frowned. “We’re at 1900 Berkley, so you would make a right here, a left at Johnson, straight through—”

“Slow down, Reid—” Aaron turned right onto the road. Fortunately, with the hour, the roads weren’t incredibly crowded yet. “I’m looking for Johnson? How far is that?” 

“Three blocks. Then—”

“ _ Reid. _ ” Spencer closed his jaw with a sharp snap. Clearly taking more than one direction at a time would not suit Aaron. He always forgot other people couldn’t tolerate strains on their memories like he could. As they turned onto another road, Spencer kept his head down. He was afraid if he looked out the window too much, it would make him carsick. “Okay, now what?”

Spencer licked his lips. “Straight through the next five lights. Merge right onto the expressway. From there, you’ll… I’ll wait, I’ll wait.” 

A large, warm hand covered his where it rested on Aaron’s knee. The beehive in Spencer’s stomach roared to life at the sensation. His cheeks flushed, and he gazed down at the floorboards of the vehicle. The engine hummed, but it didn’t irritate him; the sound of the Suburban’s engine made him feel at home, got his mind churning with thoughts of the profile and the evidence. It was some small comfort to know by the time the hospital released them, they would be able to go to the station and start working the case. The team would be there. JJ would give him his glasses and a long hug. He would have a tall cup of coffee, and they would reflect on the board together. 

He hoped they didn’t think of him differently. He didn’t want to be seen as a victim. 

But almost certainly, he and Aaron would not be holding hands like this—maybe ever again.  _ We weren’t supposed to be together today. _ But  _ today _ and  _ yesterday _ did not seem like distinct events; they hadn’t had the opportunity to sleep much as the night was stolen from them by the man in Spencer’s glasses. And they had already shared things today. Aaron had washed his hair in a disgusting, shabby sink and had caught him from falling (three times) and had told him not to burn himself in the shower and had put his own tie around Spencer’s neck and tied it for him. And they had kissed. 

Logically, he knew they should stop, but he didn’t see an end in sight. Spencer didn’t want it to stop, either. He wanted to keep that feeling he’d had as he drifted off to sleep with his head on Aaron’s chest, listening to the too-fast thrumming of his heart and the tornado in his lungs and the gurgle of blood and abdominal function inside of his skin. So well he had slept with the rhythm of  _ lub dub lub dub lub dub—whoosh, whoosh _ and the thought of never hearing it again saddened him. 

They needed to talk about their plans, but now, such a thing seemed trivial in comparison to all of the other hell in their lives. 

As if reading his mind, Aaron lifted Spencer’s hand in his own. They clasped loosely together, fingers not entwining. “I don’t want to stop,” Aaron said. 

“Neither do I.” Spencer shifted his jaw. “Maybe we can agree to, uh, figure it out after we catch the guy who left a head in our hotel room?”

Aaron puffed a short breath. “There are some people we never catch.”

“Are you hoping he’s one of those?” 

“Will it buy me an indefinite amount of time with you?” 

Spencer ducked his head, blushing. He had a lot of questions, but he had just said aloud they would figure it out later, so he pushed them aside. The flashing lights overhead and the glare of headlights in his vision indicated the expressway as Aaron merged onto it. “You should be able to see the hospital from here, and there might, uh, there might be signs. You know, the ones with the—”

“I know what a hospital sign looks like.”

Spencer blushed. He was flustered. “Sorry.” Aaron squeezed his hand.

Just talking to him, some of the tension had left Aaron’s body. His shoulders sat low instead of riding up, and his hand easily molded in Spencer’s grasp; just to test the theory, Spencer took each of his fingers and bent them toward his palm and then allowed them to unfurl. When he finished, Aaron spread his hand out, and Spencer zipped their fingers together. 

“Hold on.” Aaron took his hand away to grasp the steering wheel as he turned across several lanes of traffic toward the hospital. The lights in the rearview mirror streaked with Spencer’s astigmatism. A side street led to the hospital parking lot, and Aaron followed the lines and the arrows until he found the ER parking lot. He parked and turned off the vehicle. 

Spencer unbuckled his seat belt and slid out of the Suburban. He closed the door and stood there with his hand up against it, like he feared it would walk away, until he saw Aaron’s figure appear at the back of the SUV. Aaron waited for him with his arm proffered, and Spencer took it. “Thanks.” 

Aaron checked traffic both ways before he crossed toward the entrance to the ER. “Curb,” he said, and this time, he stopped at the curb, giving Spencer time to get his bearings and lift his foot onto the curb. He didn’t stumble. “Can you manage a revolving door, or are you going to walk through the glass?”

It was another tease. Spencer preened like a happy bird. “I think I can manage.” 

At the front desk, Aaron flashed his badge to the nurse. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner with the FBI, and this is Dr. Reid. Detective Farraday referred us here.” 

“Yes, sir, we’ve been expecting you.” The nurse smiled. She took their names and dates of birth and printed them each a bracelet. “We’ve got everything ready for you. We’re just going to get your vitals and do a preliminary blood draw, and Dr. Martin already has prescriptions written up for Truvada and raltegravir for both of you.” 

Spencer sat in the chair first, not voluntarily—Aaron cornered him into it. Aaron had a vice grip on the back of the chair. His fingers drummed on the plastic rimming.  _ I’m not the only one who hates hospitals. _ Without his glasses, the lights didn’t glare as badly, but the noise rattled him—the beeping, the buzzing, the sound of the lights, the whining of the electronic blood pressure cuff and the oxygen saturation monitor. He unbuttoned the sleeve of his left arm and rolled it up to expose his veins for the nurse who thanked him. She scrubbed his arm down with chlorhexidine and pushed the needle into his skin. 

Spencer didn’t make a sound—in fact, he barely felt it, related to the nurse's skilled technique—but behind him, Aaron made a muted hiss as the blood poured from his arm into the IV catheter and the collection tubes. It was scarcely audible; Spencer was sure, without his sensitivity to sound, he wouldn’t have heard it at all.  _ Are you okay? _ he wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare in front of another person. 

“Your blood pressure is pretty high, Dr. Reid.” 

“I have white coat hypertension.”  _ And I found a decapitated head in my hotel room and have been wandering around the city of Atlanta blind and also I recently have started kissing my boss so I have a lot of non-medical reasons to have high blood pressure right now.  _

The nurse chuckled. “Everything else is normal, so I’ll take your word for it.” 

At her gesture, Spencer popped up out of the chair. Aaron couldn’t postpone the inevitable; he sat in the chair and slipped out of his suit coat, unbuttoning his sleeve as well. Spencer stepped out of the way to avoid the nurse on her path a few paces behind the chair and rebuttoned his sleeve. “Reid.” 

Spencer lifted his gaze from his sleeve. “I’m right here.” He shuffled just behind the chair and put one hand on the back of it. “I’m not going to wander off blind.” 

The nurse put the oxygen monitor on one finger, the automatic blood pressure cuff on the other, and swiped the temporal thermometer across his forehead and behind his ear. “Hm.” 

At the sound of the reading on the thermometer and the nurse’s miffed response, Spencer perked up. “What is it?” 

“Ninety nine point five.”  _ I told you you were warm.  _ Spencer bit the tip of his tongue. “It’s not a fever. You’re probably just stressed from everything going on.” The nurse sounded unconcerned, so Spencer tried to push away his worry. 

It didn’t work. “What’s his pulse?”

“One hundred and ten.”

“And what’s—”

“Reid,  _ please. _ ”

The nurse chuckled. “Somebody’s a worrywart.” She took off the blood pressure cuff and the oxygen monitor and wrapped a tourniquet around Aaron’s arm. Probing with a gloved finger, she selected her spot and scrubbed it with chlorhexidine, and then she stuck him. He didn’t react, head held upright and straight ahead. She filled her test tubes. “We’ll call you when we have the results of the blood tests, alright? Do you know where the nearest pharmacy is?”

“1201 Ridel Lane one point two miles away from here. It’s a twenty-four hour CVS.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Well, that’s impressive. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“I’m not.” Aaron stood and offered Spencer his arm. Spencer took it. 

The nurse gave them their prescriptions. “You two take care.” They both thanked her. 

On the way out, Spencer walked face-first into the revolving door. 

…

Pulling up in a Suburban in front of the hotel, JJ climbed out of the passenger seat. Emily had parked somewhat crookedly in the lot. “Nice parking job, Prentiss,” Morgan teased. She shot him a look. JJ checked her phone again. “Still nothing from either of them?”

She shook her head. “No.” She slid her phone back into her purse. “Garcia said Hotch rented a Suburban. I don’t see one here. Do you?”

“They may have already gone to the station.” Rossi pushed between them. “But we’re not going to find out unless we  _ go inside. _ ” Morgan followed after him with his swaggering steps. Emily took JJ by the hand, and together, they followed them into the lobby of the hotel with gray dawn light illuminating the street behind them. 

Rossi held out his badge to the cops that greeted them. “We’re with the FBI. We’re here to see Detective Farraday.” 

The tall man approached. “I’m Detective Farraday.”

Rossi put his badge away. “I’m SSA Rossi, and these are Agents Morgan, Prentiss, and Jareau. I take it you may remember them.”

“Yeah, yeah, vaguely.” Detective Farraday shook hands with each of them. “Would you like me to take you upstairs to look at the crime scene?” 

JJ interrupted, “I have Spencer’s—Dr. Reid’s glasses. I need to give them to him.” She didn’t want any delay in Spencer getting his glasses back. Every moment he was blind in this unfamiliar city was another moment he was vulnerable, and she couldn’t have him vulnerable while someone was cutting off heads and painting slurs on walls with blood. 

Detective Farraday put his hands on his hips. “Agents Hotchner and Reid are in the ER right now.”

JJ blinked. Morgan squared up. “ _ What? _ What happened? We understood they weren’t hurt!” 

“They weren’t.” He held up his hands, trying to placate them. “They were unharmed in the attack, but the blood from the ME came back HIV positive, and she recommended sending them both to the ER to be assessed and get a prescription for prophylactics. Agent Hotchner said he’ll meet us at the station when they’re finished at the hospital.”

Emily looked up between them. “So we’ve got an ME report finished, and somebody has to give them forensic interviews. JJ, will you do that?” JJ nodded. “Morgan and I can stay here and investigate the scene—Rossi, do you want to go to the ME’s office?” 

“Sure. Everybody regroup at the station once you’re done with your searches.” Rossi checked his watch. “The sun will be up soon. I’ll grab breakfast for everybody on my way back in.” He turned on his heel to head back for the door. 

JJ trotted after him. “Hey, will you drop me at the hospital? I want Spence to get his glasses sooner rather than later.” 

“Kid’s really blind as a bat, isn’t he?” 

She puffed a short breath. “You could say that.”  _ I won’t believe he’s safe until I see him. _ She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but the anxiety in her chest hadn’t calmed since Garcia had woken them all with the group phone call and pleaded with them to come to the round table as soon as they possibly could. She  _ always _ worried about Spencer, had ever since Hankel, had even gone to therapy about it when he finally recommended it (she had woken him in the middle of the night too many times, calling him or worse, knocking on his door, after a nightmare where she couldn’t convince herself he was okay until she heard his voice or saw his face). She needed to  _ see _ him. 

“Alright. I’ve got an agent from the local field office dropping a vehicle for Prentiss and Morgan, so we should be good.” 

JJ climbed back into the Suburban beside Rossi. “Thanks.” He cranked the engine, and they drove away. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're in Tumblr Criminal Minds fandom, please feel free to reach out to me! I'm thefandomlesbian and looking for more CM blogs to follow!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

“You know that, but you don’t believe it. Even deep in a cave, you don’t believe in total darkness. You keep waiting for your eyes to adjust.” -Sharon Bryan

…

The lobby of the hotel had mostly emptied as the cops returned to the station for shift change; only a handful of the CSI investigators remained. Emily crossed her arms. “What are the odds the crime scene is going to be in any great condition for us to analyze after everybody and their mother has stomped through it?” she mumbled to Morgan. 

He raised his eyebrows and inhaled deeply through his nose. “Not good,” he breathed back to her. Detective Farraday waved his hand for them to follow, and Morgan led the way. “C’mon.” 

The staircase was steep, dark, and narrow, and Emily trotted up them after Morgan and the detective. “After all this hullabaloo, I convinced the manager to let you stay here—figured you’d all want to be closest to the crime scene. Agent Hotchner and the skinny guy are in the room across the hall, and I’ve got keys for you all, as well, if you’d like to put down your things.” 

Emily took a keycard. “Sure.” She glanced up at Morgan. “You wanna move Reid’s stuff into your room?”

Morgan snorted. “I get the opportunity to  _ not _ share a hotel with Reid? I’m taking it. He always unplugs the TV and is up and down all night drinking more coffee and peeing and tossing and turning as if that isn’t related to the coffee. Hotch can deal with his antics. Me and Rossi have the same taste in sitcoms. Match made in heaven.” 

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Sure, sure.” She opened her door. “If he bugs Hotch, he can crash with us. JJ might want to watch his chest as he sleeps to make sure he’s still alive.” 

With a laugh, Morgan pushed into his hotel room, and they each dropped their bags and came back out to greet Detective Farraday. He stood by the open door of the crime scene. “This is Rob Hendrick. He’s the lead CSI investigator, and he’ll debrief you on the room. I’ve got to get back to the station and prepare a place for your team to set up.” 

“Thanks, Detective Farraday.” Emily smiled at him, and he nodded to her and headed back down the stairs. The CSI investigator held up his hand in greeting. “I’m Agent Prentiss, and this is Agent Morgan. What do you have?” 

Rob gestured to the shattered window. “From witness report—that is, your friends—he came in through this window, which was ajar and had the screen removed. Screen is down below on the ground. We dusted it for prints but got nothing.” He pointed along the carpeted floor. Stray blood droplets scattered the ground. “We got fibers of some sort from the carpet over here. Best guess is he carried the head and whatever he used to contain the blood in a bag, put it down here to take things out.” There was a round stain on the carpet next to the chest of drawers. “Head was here, and… well, you can see for yourself.” 

The blood had dried into a rusty color, DIE FAG written so boldly the pit of Emily’s gut shivered. She swallowed hard. “Prints from this?” she asked. 

“Um—no, actually. It appears he used some kind of brush to make this stroke. Like, a paintbrush.”

“So we may be looking at an artist?” Morgan asked. 

“Anybody can get paintbrushes at Walmart,” Emily said. She looked away from the blood painted on the wall. She didn’t need to keep staring at it. “But it may be worthwhile to have an artist look at it, see if they can identify the type of brush used.” 

Rob nodded. “Agent Hotchner was sleeping in that bed—” He pointed. “—and Dr. Reid was sleeping in this one.” He gestured down at the mattress. Blood had dried onto the pillowcase and sheet. “When Dr. Reid screamed, Agent Hotchner woke up. Suspect—unsub, to use your language—darted back out the window. Agent Hotchner fired three rounds, but when he saw the blood on Dr. Reid’s face, he thought he was injured and didn’t pursue. By the time police were on-scene, the man was long gone.” He pointed down at the carpet beside the bed. “Now, what’s interesting is that Dr. Reid’s glasses were missing. He said when the unsub loomed over him, he was wearing his glasses over a white mask. And the fragments here indicated he punched the lenses out of the glasses before he took them.”

“That’s a weird kinda trophy.”

Emily asked, “Was anything of Hotch’s missing?”

Rob shook his head. “Not as far as we can tell. He hasn’t reported anything missing from his things, and frankly only this side of the room appeared to be touched.”

“He stayed close to his escape route,” Morgan observed. 

Emily’s brows quirked together. “Hey, Morgan—sit on the bed. Like, where Reid was. Mr. Hendrick, will you stand by the window? Where the unsub came in?” With another nod, he obeyed, moving to stand in front of the window. Morgan sat on the bed. “So Morgan, you’re roughly the same height as Reid…” She sat down on the bed where Hotch had slept. “I’m Hotch. I’m lying here, until I hear you scream.” She pushed herself forward on the bed. “And I reach for my gun when I realize there’s someone else in the room…”

“But?” Morgan asked. 

“But you’re in my way.” Morgan raised his eyebrows. She extended her hand like a pistol. “I don’t have a clear shot at the unsub. You’re blocking my shot.” She rolled off of the bed, careful not to disturb the blankets. “I take the straight path to get a better shot—but unsub has been on the move since you screamed for the first time and is already mostly out the window. I push you down so you’re clear of my shots, and that’s when I realize there’s blood all over you, so I don’t pursue, because now my priority is getting you medical attention. By the time you tell me it isn’t your blood, unsub is long gone.” 

Rob raised his eyebrows. “You think this was planned  _ that _ thoroughly? You think he knew Dr. Reid would block the shot?” 

Morgan got off the bed. “It’s possible.”

“He didn’t make a move in this room where Reid wasn’t between him and Hotch. Hotch wouldn’t risk shooting Reid.”  _ That’s some kind of tactical skill, though. _ Emily didn’t know many people who could plan tactical raids like that except people who worked in the field. She went to the window. “It’s only a few feet from the bed to the window. Even if Hotch didn’t notice the blood, by the time he made it over here and was firing shots, unsub would have a good head start.”

“And Hotch wouldn’t be able to get out this window without risking hurting himself.”

“Yeah,” Rob said, “we can’t figure out how he got in  _ or _ out. There’s no evidence of ladder placement.”

Morgan’s brow furrowed. “Maybe parkour?” Emily looked back at him.  _ What? _ she wanted to ask, but she held her tongue. “Stay here for a second. I’ll go outside and get a good vantage point from below, see what I can make of it.” He trotted out of the room before she could contradict him. 

Rob’s phone rang. He looked down at the screen. “Excuse me,” he said, “I need to take this.” Emily nodded to him, and he left the room, heading down the hall and down the stairs. 

Emily leaned out the window, looking below. It looked like a steep drop; the window ledges provided potential grips, but she couldn’t imagine someone landing straight on their feet without busting an ankle or a knee badly. Morgan walked beneath her in the pale gray morning light. “It’s still pretty dark down here,” he called up to her. “Unsub couldn’t even see the wall as he climbed, and he had weight on his back.”

“You think we’re missing something?”

Morgan approached the wall. “This is an old building. No, I don’t think so. Hey, Prentiss, stand back, I’m gonna try something.”

“Morgan, don’t, you’re going to break your neck—” Morgan doubled back away from the wall and, once he had a good amount of distance between himself and the wall, he bolted toward the wall. Emily shrank back away from the window. He jumped, kicking off of the sill from the first story window. His next step kicked off of the wall, which gave him enough leverage to grab the window ledge. “Ouch—” One hand dug into a sharp protruding rim from the ancient window. “Emily, help—”

_ If we both fall out this damn window… _ Emily dashed to his side and grabbed him by his belt, heaving backward. She staggered and landed on her ass, and with a  _ whump _ , Morgan flattened her to the carpet. “Oof,” she grunted. Lying there on the carpet, looking at the words DIE FAG written as she saw them upside down, she sighed. “I thought I had the world’s worst coming out party, but I think Reid has me beat.” 

Pushing himself up, Morgan looked at his cut hand. It was shallow. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and balled it up, pressing it to the cut. “You mean the coming out party where you faked your own death for seven months and came back as JJ’s girlfriend?”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Emily pulled herself to her feet and offered Morgan a hand. “No, that was _ JJ’ _ s coming out party. My coming out party happened when I was twenty-one, and my mother invited all of the most liberal dignitaries she knew to a courtly, formal party where I had to stand in one place all night and shake hands and thank them all for their generosity. And once she was done using me for political clout, my mother promised if I ever actually entered a relationship with another woman, I could expect to find myself written out of the will.” She pulled Morgan to his feet. 

“So no vagina balloons and family hate to boot.”

“There were definitely no vagina balloons.” Emily looked down at the beds again. “So what did we learn about trying to vault ourselves up to second story windows?”

Morgan crossed his arms. “We learned the building has a lot of good grips from the aged brick. Somebody who was skilled at parkour could’ve done that easily and silently.”

“Getting up  _ and _ down?” 

“I’m not gonna demonstrate getting down, but—yeah. Somebody who has a good enough safety roll technique can jump from a second story window or a roof fairly easily without getting hurt.” Morgan moved between the beds, looking down at each of them. “Hey, Prentiss?”

She perked up. “Yeah?”

A crease marred the space between Morgan’s eyebrows. “This bed looks like two people slept in it.” She stepped closer, looking down at the mattress. “Look at the way the cover is bunched up. On the other bed, it’s only folded down on the one side—here, it’s folded down on both sides.”

Emily raised her eyebrows. “If I woke up to somebody in my hotel room screaming, I’d fling my blankets pretty hard to get out of bed fast enough. You can’t look at the cover and know anything.” 

Bending his knees, Morgan hovered just above one of the pillows. He extended his thumb and forefinger, and then delicately, he plucked a hair from the fibers of the pillow. “Would you freak out enough to change the color and the length of your hair?” He held it up to her—sure enough, a long, brown strand of hair, too long and too light to have come from Hotch’s head. “Do you think they’re hiding something?” 

Snorting, Emily shook her head, but her stomach whirled with apprehension. “No, I don’t.”  _ God, I hope not.  _ “I think Reid was scared and worried about how we might perceive him now and how his life is going to change, and one of the few male role models he’s ever had came to find him and provided some reassurance that he isn’t a monster.” Morgan walked across the room to the trash can and picked around through it. “What are you doing now?”

“Looking for condoms.”

“Morgan, what the  _ hell _ is wrong with you?” 

He looked back at her. She wanted to be angry, but his face wore an expression of genuine concern and fear, and her fury melted away into something soft. Morgan wasn’t poking around for dirt on them; he was worried about his little brother and would go to any end to ensure his safety. “You really think nothing happened here?” 

Emily tilted her head. “Yeah. I really do.” He stood from over the trash can. “When I was in his shoes, all I needed was for someone I loved to hold me and tell me I wasn’t a demon or a freak and I wasn’t going to burn in hell. We  _ all _ feel the same way about Reid, and any one of us would’ve done anything we could to let him know it’s going to be okay. Wouldn’t you have?” 

He hesitated, sucking on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I would’ve.” 

“Hotch wouldn’t do anything to take advantage of Reid. You  _ know _ that. He probably just let Reid know he’s not too disgusting to be touched.” Morgan’s face quivered, and Emily wondered if she had said too much. “And if you run in there and start accusing them of things, you’re not going to accomplish anything but embarrassing them and breaking Reid’s trust in you. He needs to know we’re not going to judge him.” 

Morgan blew a tight breath from between his lips. “I know. I know. I just—” He crossed his arms, still staring down at the trash can. Emily moved closer to him to hear the quiet, musing sound of his voice. “It was hard when it was just you. When I had to worry about what people would do or say to you in the field. Hell, when you were in the Separatarian Sect, I couldn’t get out of my head what those nuts would do to you if they found out about you. I know you can look after yourself, but I didn’t want anybody to say anything out of line to you. I was so afraid that somebody was gonna hurt you over something you can’t control, and I wouldn’t be there to stop it.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then JJ, and trying to get past those fraternization policies—I shouldn’t have to be a  _ character witness _ for either of you before the bureau, I  _ know _ they’re being discriminatory. They never made so much of a sound about Penelope and Kevin, but when it’s two women, suddenly they’re rioting up there, making Hotch sign their papers and getting Rossi to bend over backward to have those rules overturned. And with you  _ both _ out in the field,  _ together, _ that kills me. It kills me that you have targets on your backs, that Henry does too, and I can’t do anything to stop it and there may come a day when I can’t protect you.” 

Peeling the handkerchief from his bleeding hand, he looked at the shallow cut on his palm. The bleeding had stopped. “And you’re both… I mean, I can more or less trust you and JJ could kick the ass of anybody who tries to start shit with you. Reid  _ can’t. _ He’s been bullied and mocked ever since he entered the bureau, and this is going to make it worse, in the field and out of it. Now I’ve got to worry about all three of you? I can’t be everywhere at once, Emily, and it scares me to death to think that one of you might be hurt because of something this—this insignificant. Look.” He pointed to the wall, to the slur written there in blood, DIE FAG; Emily’s blood boiled, and she ripped her gaze away before she stared at it again. “Look at that. This happened to him and I wasn’t here to protect him.” 

Emily’s brow quirked. “Pretty big talk from a guy who I just saved from falling out a second story window. Maybe you’re the one who needs protecting.”

“Oh, c’mon—” Morgan shoved her playfully. Emily shoved him back. He didn’t swing back at her. “You really aren’t worried?”

Her hands dropped. “Of course I’m worried,” she said, looking up at him. “We’re  _ all _ worried. But we’re  _ all _ going to look after him. This is personal for all of us, and none of us are going to let Reid get hurt. Hotch included. We’re going to catch this guy, and we’re going to prosecute him for a hate crime and for murder, and he’s going to go away for a really long time. And Reid will always know you’re going to do whatever you can to protect him, just like all of us will.” She touched Morgan’s forearm. “You don’t have to bear all of this alone, you know. We can take care of ourselves. And maybe if you’re so concerned about Reid’s hand-to-hand, he could use some brush up lessons.”

“I tried telling him that. I made him sign up for a fitness class with me.”

Emily raised her eyebrows in surprise. “How did that go?”

“He picked spinning, and he fell off in the first lesson and never went back. He said it would be too embarrassing to show up wearing a helmet.” 

Her eyes widened. “Isn’t spinning riding a stationary bike?” 

Morgan chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.” 

Their phones both buzzed with messages to the group chat. 

D Rossi:  _ Got the ME report. White male age 20-30. evidence of sexual assault. Cod blunt force trauma. Head severed postmortem probably with an axe. Hows the scene? _

E Prentiss:  _ This guy’s either a tactical genius or insanely lucky. Vantage points from the beds checked—Reid blocked Hotch’s shot at the unsub from almost every angle. no prints. blood msg painted with a brush. fiber evidence of some bag believed to be used for transport. polycarbonate lenses found shattered on the carpet, he wore the frames out of the room. _

D Rossi:  _ That's some kind of trophy. _

D Morgan:  _ Guy’s gotta be physically fit and into parkour to get into and out of the second story without hurting himself. _

E Prentiss:  _ Yeah derek learned that the hard way _

D Rossi:  _ Please tell me nobody fell out of the window. _

E Prentiss:  _ Nobody fell out of the window. _

D Rossi:  _ Great. I don’t want to know the rest. heard from hotch reid or jj? _

D Morgan:  _ Negative. we’ll head to the station soon. _

D Rossi:  _ I got breakfast for everyone. sun is almost up. let’s catch this SOB.  _

Emily tucked her phone back into her pocket. Morgan mirrored her actions. “Anything else you want to see here?” she asked him. 

Casting a long glance around the room, Morgan sized everything up. “No, I don’t think so…” He trailed off, but then he continued, “Do you think we should let Hotch and Reid come back here to investigate?” 

Her jaw shifted as she considered. “I don’t think that would be wise. They’re material witnesses. Coming here could alter their recall and fuddle things up.”

“But?”

Emily grinned, inclining her eyebrows as she led the way out of the room. “But it’s Hotch and it’s Reid. We don’t  _ let them _ do anything. If they want to come back in here, are you going to be the one to stop them?” 

“Not unless I got a funky little lesbian to back me up.” 

Emily laughed, and Morgan ruffled her hair affectionately as they headed back down the stairs.

…

Gray dawn peered over the horizon, but in the parking lot with no overhead lights and long, deep shadows cast by the vehicles, JJ waited in darkness for Hotch and Spencer to come out of the hospital. She leaned against the front end of the Suburban with her phone in her hand. 

J Jareau:  _ Hey, Hotch, I’m outside waiting by the Suburban. Got Reid’s glasses. _

She didn’t see a read receipt. Tucking her phone back into her pocket, she tilted her head back to admire the sunrise. The streaks of pale gray illuminated the skyline. But in these large cities, Atlanta and the others like it, nothing was prettier in the daylight than it was at night. She missed her small town in Pennsylvania.

It had its faults, but nobody had ever left a decapitated head in her best friend’s hotel room there. She couldn’t say the same for this place. 

Behind her, voices rose. 

“You let me walk into that door on purpose.” 

“I didn’t.”

“Oh, please, you laughed.”

“I asked you if you were okay first.”

“So you admit to laughing after that?” 

Hotch’s voice crackled, not quite a laugh—he was far too reserved for such a thing—but a certain mirth was attached to his words. “Spencer, you looked like one of those people in the Windex commercials.”  _ Spencer. _ JJ’s brows quirked, and she turned from where she rested on the hood of the car. She couldn’t remember Hotch ever calling Spencer by his first name, except for when he was  _ in trouble. _ This time he said it lightly. “Here. Hold still. You’re welting up on your forehead.” 

“No surprise, since  _ somebody _ let me walk into a glass door.”

“It was a revolving door. You were fine going in. I thought you had it down to a science.” 

“Revolving doors stress me out. I don’t like the way they sound. Ow—Aaron, stop poking it!”  _ Aaron?  _ JJ’s eyes stretched wide, and this time, she slid fully off the hood of the Suburban and turned to face them, still cast in shadow and out of sight. Hotch ran his thumb across a bump on Spencer’s forehead; Spencer’s face was pressed between his large hands, but in spite of the proximity between them, Spencer didn’t fidget or try to escape. His eyes were closed. He almost seemed to relax into the touch—a totally foreign concept to JJ, who knew Spencer avoided physical contact except when he  _ really  _ needed it. 

But, well—someone had attacked him in the bed where he was sleeping. If he had ever  _ needed _ physical contact for comfort or relief, now would be the time. “I’ll get an ice pack at CVS. You need to ice that before it swells.” 

They split, Hotch heading around to the driver’s side of the Suburban while Spencer headed for the passenger door. At the sight of him approaching her, JJ’s insides eased. She smiled and pulled his glasses case out of her purse, and then she opened her arms to hug him. “Spence—” 

She stepped out of the shadow and grabbed him by the arm. Spencer’s eyes widened into saucers; his whole body flared up with tension. “ _ Hotch! _ ” he screamed, throwing his hands up over his face as if in self defense. 

“Spence, it’s—”

“Federal agents!” 

JJ spun toward Hotch, who had rounded the SUV with his gun extended, the barrel pointed right at her. “Jesus Christ, Hotch! It’s me!” As he recognized her, he holstered his weapon, severity marring his face. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Spencer gulped. “JJ—” He was pale with fear. His mouth hung open, and then it split open into a smile. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you—I actually didn’t see you at all.”

“You don’t say? I think you both need to go back in that hospital and get some Valium!” 

Hotch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a long night.” He unlocked the Suburban. The lights flashed. “What are you doing out here?” 

“I had Rossi drop me on his way to the ME’s office. I have Spencer’s glasses.” She opened the case and unfolded the glasses. She extended her arm and placed them over his ears, pushing them up to his nose. “Better now?”

With a sheepish smile, Spencer nodded. “Lots.” She went to hug him again, and this time, he eagerly sank into her arms. “I missed you.” 

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Her voice wanted to choke up, but she swallowed through it. He was  _ safe, _ he was  _ here, _ and they were going to find the person who did this and put them away for a very long time. “I was really worried about you.” She narrowed her eyes at the welt on his forehead. “So how’d you get the bump?”

He gave a timid chuckle, averting his eyes and fidgeting with his glasses. “I fought a revolving door and lost.” He reached for the passenger door handle of the vehicle and opened it, climbing inside.

JJ swung into the back seat, and Hotch joined them in the driver’s seat. “I texted you I was out here.”

Hotch put on his seatbelt. “My phone is off. I’m not taking any calls from Strauss until we have a compilation of evidence. I don’t want her trying to bring us home on this.” 

JJ nodded. It made sense; they needed a strong foundation to build the case on, and they could present that to Strauss before allowing her to make an executive decision to bring the team home. “Once we’re at the station, I’ll start the paperwork for Detective Farraday to officially call us in. It’ll be retroactive, but it’ll still look better than nothing on paper at all.”

She opened the group text on her phone. 

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Hotch’s phone is off. Take no calls from Strauss!! _

Rossi 🍝 :  _ Wasn’t planning on it.  _

Morgan💪:  _ We’re all on our way back to the station. Rossi has breakfast. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Don’t let Em text and drive. _

Morgan💪:  _ Literally just took the phone away from her. _

📕Spence📘:  _ Distracted driving causes an average of nine deaths and one thousand injuries every day in the US. MVAs are the leading cause of death for everyone ages one through forty-four.  _

🌸PG🌸:  _ Pretty boy!!!!  _ ❤️❤️ _ We missed you!!  _ 💋🌈

Rossi🍝:  _ Bet somebody’s excited to have his glasses back. _

📕Spence📘:  _ Rossi, are you texting and driving? _

Rossi🍝:  _ It’s hands free, kid. You and your technophobia wouldn’t know anything about that.  _

🌸PG🌸:  _ Somebody ask Hotch what he wants me to say if Strauss comes in my office. _

Morgan💪:  _ Is she there now? _

🌸PG🌸:  _ No, but we all know she probably will be soon. _

JJ looked up from her phone, and as she did, Spencer said, “Garcia wants to know what she should tell Strauss if she comes into her office.” JJ peered between the seats, watching as the rearview mirror showed the reflection of parts of their faces. Spencer met her eyes in the mirror and smiled. She looked down at his hand, which rubbed his knee as he fidgeted, drumming from left to right. More than once, he reached toward the middle console, but then he put his hand back on his knee and glanced down at his fingers almost nervously. 

Hotch’s pensive face did not waver. “Have Garcia give her whatever she wants. I don’t want to step on Strauss’s toes anymore than I already have.” 

JJ picked up her phone and began to relay the information to Garcia. Spencer looked over at Hotch. “You called in the whole team on a case without talking to anybody in upper management or having an official request from law enforcement—you, uh, you kinda already stomped all over her feet with big heavy boots.” 

Hotch raised his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he sighed, blowing a breath from between his lips. “I know.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “If we end up in front of the board of directors again so soon after Doyle, it won’t be a very good look. No other unit has ever appeared in front of the board three times in three years. They’ll want to pin it on someone.” 

JJ leaned forward. “You know we won’t let them terminate you.”

“How are you going to stop them?” Spencer asked. 

JJ gritted her teeth, shooting him a sideways glance, and when she made eye contact with him, he raised his eyebrows, mouthing a silent, “Oh,” and whispering an apology to the insensitivity of his remark.  _ Thanks, Spence. _ She added, “We have ways. We’ll sort it out. And we  _ all _ agreed to come. This is on all of us.” Her phone rang. 

“Strauss?” Hotch guessed. 

She declined the call. “Yep.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Did you just decline a call from Chief Strauss?” His phone rang. “Oh, no.” JJ took his phone. “JJ, wait—” She declined the call, also. “JJ, I actually like having a job!” His voice went up the octave. 

“I’ll talk to her when we have something of a working profile,” Hotch said, turning into the parking lot of the CVS. “I’ll be right back.” He took the two prescriptions and hopped out of the Suburban, turning it off and locking it behind him. 

Spencer frowned. “He locked us in.”

“It’s probably a dad habit.” JJ looked at the side of his face. He looked back at her. “How are you holding up?” she asked. 

He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “All things considered? I’m… alright.” He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt. “I mean, I was better before we found a head in our hotel room and somebody poured HIV positive blood all over me, but now that I’m here, I could be a lot worse.” 

JJ nodded slowly, pursing her lips. “You know, you could’ve saved me a lot of worry if you would’ve just told me.” 

He looked back at her. “I couldn’t tell anyone until I was sure.”

“You weren’t sure when you left?” JJ asked somewhat skeptically. Spencer shook his head. “What made you sure?”

“My mom and Gideon—they already knew. They told me so.” 

It was odd to think of Spencer asking someone else’s opinion on something. He seemed to know almost everything most of the time—but apparently he knew very little about himself. “But if they had told you you were wrong, would you have believed them?”

His brow furrowed. “I dunno. Maybe.” He tilted his head. “How was I supposed to know? I mean, how did you know, before Emily?” 

JJ laughed a quiet thing. “I didn’t. I think I figured it out about the time she was taking off my bra.” 

“Oh. That’s not an experience I’m going to have.”

Her eyes softened. “You will.”

“I will have someone take off my bra? I don’t think so.” 

She laughed again, her smile widening. “Oh, c’mon, Spence.” She rested her chin on the curve of his seat, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. “What are your plans for the future now?”

The perplexed frown remained on his lips. “Same as before, I guess.” JJ wanted to press him with more questions.  _ Don’t you want to be a dad? _ she wanted to ask.  _ Don’t you want to get married? _ She didn’t ask the second question; it pained her enough knowing she and Emily could marry in DC and not be legally married when they drove to work in Virginia. She didn’t want to make Spencer aware of that.  _ What’s your type? _ The tip of her tongue burned with curiosities. “Can I ask you something?” Spencer asked. 

He caught her off-guard. “Well, yeah, sure, anything.” 

He paused, licking his lips nervously. “I know this isn’t exactly in your wheelhouse, but, uh… What can you tell me about sex?”

JJ choked on her own saliva. “I—um…” He was right; it wasn’t exactly in her wheelhouse at all, how gay men had sex. But she had had sex with a few men in her lifetime. “There’s, um, there’s not exactly much to it. Just make sure you use a condom and a lot of lubricant.”

He made a crinkled face. “I’ve read the  _ Kama Sutra _ front to back both in English and in Sanskrit. I think I could’ve figured that much out on my own.” 

“Well, what would you like to know specifically?” 

Spencer looked back down at his hands in his lap. “I guess… How do you know when you’re ready? And if you’re not ready, how do you get ready? And how do you pick the right person? And how do you  _ know _ for sure it’s the right person when you do it?”

They were all questions he wouldn’t find the answer to in the  _ Kama Sutra, _ JJ supposed. “I…” She thought long about her answers. She didn’t want to answer too hastily and give him bad advice. “I don’t know if anyone ever really  _ is _ ready for their first time. It just sort of happens naturally, and afterward you realize you were ready all along. But most people have it when they’re teenagers, so maybe it’s different for you.” Spencer fiddled with the hems of the pockets of his pants, running his fingers back and forth over them. “You can’t really know if someone is the right person until after. You can take steps, you know, to try to vet them… You can see what you like about each other and go from there. But sometimes you’ll be with someone for years, and they still won’t be the right person.” 

His eyes were wide. “Isn’t that terrifying?” 

She shrugged. “I guess so. But eventually you come to terms with it. And a relationship doesn’t mean less just because it ends.” She paused, and then she continued, “I guess, to me, none of it is more terrifying than dying alone.” 

Fidgeting with his hands, Spencer nodded in agreement. “Yeah, that—that sounds pretty terrifying, too.” 

JJ admired him in the growing light, still faint, still pale over the horizon, casting them both in shades of gray. “So you’re thinking about it?” she asked. “Trying to find someone, I mean. You’re ready to take that step?”

Her heart shivered with concern for him. What if someone tried to take advantage of him? What if someone was mean to him? What if someone misled him? Men could be so despicable—they definitely saw the worst of them through the BAU. She couldn’t stand the thought of Spencer getting hurt. He raised an eyebrow at her. “I’m thirty years old. Arguably, the time to take that step was a long time ago.” 

_ He has a point. _ He was a grown man, not a baby, as much as she wanted to protect him in her heart. She had to trust him to look after himself. He wasn’t naive, not as much as they all made him out to be in their heads. After all, he was a profiler. She didn’t know many people who could manipulate a profiler. “So… Do you have anyone in mind?”

His fingers drummed on his knees. “I dunno, yet… Not exactly, I guess.” 

_ What does that mean? _ JJ wanted to ask; it was so vague and unlike Spencer’s usual direct attitude. But he avoided eye contact with her and swallowed hard, nervously, and she knew this wasn’t the best time for her to harass him with questions. He had been through enough for one night, and the day wouldn’t give him a break as it arrived. “Em and I know a lot of people in DC. I’m sure we could try to help you meet someone. That way you don’t have to waste time going to clubs or trying to fight with dating apps.” 

He pursed his lips as he looked at her. “You’d do that for me? Set me up with your friends?”

“Sure. Why not?”

The chagrined groove appeared between his eyebrows again. “Because I’m weird.” He licked his lips, rubbing his hands together. His knuckles cracked audibly. He took his chapstick out of his pocket and screwed the lid around it. “I wouldn’t want anybody to think less of you because you’re friends with somebody like me. I’m not sure I’m the type of person anyone could, you know… love.” 

JJ’s mouth hung open in surprise. “Spence, you’re not  _ weird, _ you know that.” She ruffled his hair. It was less feathery than normal from the days of hotel shampoo; it was always softer when they were home for a few days, when he got to use his own shampoo. “Any man would be lucky to have you. You’re super cute.”

He leaned into her touch, smiling an odd smile. “Everybody says that, but I think they mean I’m cute like a puppy is cute, not the kind of cute you want to have sex with.” 

She kept mussing his hair because she knew he liked it. “You could be both. There’s nothing wrong with being both.”

“I don’t think I’m both. Gideon told me I have the sex appeal of a math textbook. Now, for me, that’s a little exciting, but I think a normal person probably would disagree with the excitation I get from opening a new theoretical math book.” 

JJ’s smile broadened. “That’s something to work with. Every time I ever opened a math textbook, I always said, ‘Fuck me.’” Spencer chuckled, ducking his head at her joke. “You  _ are _ cute, Spence. And you’re sweet, and you care so much about the world around you. And you’re an FBI agent. Everybody thinks a man who carries a gun is hot.” 

He shook his head. “A man who carries a gun like Hotch carries a gun is hot. A man who carries a gun like I carry a gun looks like he’s auditioning for a poorly done  _ Wild, Wild West _ remake.” 

“Maybe that’s part of the charm.” JJ remembered just a few minutes ago, when she had heard Spencer call Hotch by his first name—she wondered for a moment if she should ask about it, about whatever had gone through his mind and prompted him to do that and why Hotch didn’t react any differently than he did, why Spencer looked so comfortable with his face between Hotch’s hands.  _ He has strong male friendships. That’s good for him. _ She didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or alienate him from Hotch. He’d lived most of his life without having other men to look up to; if he could let himself be close to another man now, after all these years of almost exclusively trusting and confiding in women, JJ was in no position to criticize him for that. “I’m serious, you know. You’re a good man. You’re making the world a better place. It’s not going to be hard for you to find somebody who thinks you’re cute and wants to get to know you.” She nudged him gently. “C’mon. What’s your type?” 

He flushed. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“JJ, I’ve known I’m gay for, like, two days. Cut me some slack that I don’t have a shirtless firemen calendar on my wall yet.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Shirtless firemen? So you like a guy who’s really ripped.”

“What? No! No, that was just an example—”

“Do you prefer Morgan-like muscles or Hotch-like muscles?” 

Spencer flushed bright red, sinking lower into the seat. “I have noodle arms; I’m not in a position to be judging anybody else’s muscles or lack thereof.” He fidgeted with discomfort, tugging on the tie of his shirt. JJ tilted her head to look at it.  _ New tie. _ The color suited him. He usually preferred warmer-toned ties or patterned ties, but this one was a solid navy, almost purple. She liked it. “I guess,” he continued, quieter now, “I like more of a… broody type. Like in the books my mom read me when I was a kid. You know, Aragorn, or Hamlet, or Heathcliff, or Frankenstein.” 

JJ blinked. “Your type is  _ Frankenstein? _ ” she repeated incredulously. She knew there were online communities of people who wanted to have sex with fictional monsters, but she wouldn’t have  _ ever _ pegged Spencer as one of them. 

“Oh—common misconception. Victor Frankenstein is actually the doctor who creates the monster. Frankenstein is so horrified by his creation that he abandons him with no name and leaves him to suffer at the whims of a cruel world. So… in some ways, Frankenstein  _ is _ the monster, but he isn’t the one roaming around murdering people. Mary Shelley wanted us to ask ourselves about the monstrosity of men and how our capacity to create may one day go too far.” 

“So… your type is a scientist who plays God and then regrets it?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m more attracted to his character in the way he monologues and agonizes over his past and becomes a tragic hero, where his actions caused his own undoing and downfall and yet you still feel pity for him because he didn’t know the gravity of what he was doing when he was doing it. I really like a tragic hero.” 

JJ nodded slowly. “When I asked about your type, I really wanted to know if you preferred blonds or brunets.” 

“Oh.” Spencer considered, silent for a moment, and then he said, “Brunets. Definitely brunets.” 

She smiled. “Good to know.” 

“Hey, um, JJ?”

“Yeah?” 

“I have sort of a weird question.”

“Go for it.” 

Abashed, Spencer fidgeted with his hair. “If I get to that point with a guy, and, you know, we don’t have clothes on anymore… Should I take my glasses off or leave them on?” JJ couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. She didn’t know  _ why _ she found it so ridiculous, Spencer asking her this question—arguably, it was very much like him to want to know what to do before he did it. “JJ, I’m serious!” 

“I know, I know—” JJ gasped for breath. “I know. Hold on, let me regain my composure—”

“What’s so funny?” 

JJ pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just—I don’t know. It just  _ is. _ It’s funny that you’re so cute and you’re still so concerned about this.” 

His lips pointed downward at the edges. “I’m not exactly a sight for sore eyes. I just want to look the best I can.”

“Honey, if somebody likes you enough to take your clothes off, he’s probably not gonna change his mind because you left your glasses on or took them off.” JJ touched his hand. He stiffened a little, but then his hand relaxed in hers, and she gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’ll want to be able to see, won’t you?” He nodded. “But they’ll probably get all smudged up and maybe foggy. I don’t know. You should do whatever makes you the most comfortable.” 

“But what do you think? With or without?”

He faced her. JJ turned on the cab light and studied his face. She took his glasses off. Then she put them back on.  _ Hm.  _ She took them off again, and then she put them back on. “Without. Otherwise I can see my reflection, and that would bother me.”

“Thanks.” He adjusted his glasses. 

“You’re awfully worried about this. Are you sure there isn’t anyone you’re interested in?” 

Spencer twirled his fingers around the hem of his sweater vest. “No. I’m just anxious about it.” He didn’t make eye contact with her, but she didn’t doubt him. He had been through enough. “JJ, I—I’m sorry I worried you. I should’ve told you. I almost did, but…” He trailed off. 

“I know.”  _ I broke his trust. _ JJ knew she was going to have to work long and hard to earn it back. She rubbed the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, too.” He looked at her in concern. “I worried about you for a couple of days and thought I was going to be sick. You mourned Emily for seven months. I—I can’t imagine what it was like for you. I kind of deserved it.” 

He shook his head. “No, I—I was wrong to blame you.” He looked down at the floorboards of the vehicle. “Hotch told me you asked him every day. If you could tell us the truth.”

“I did,” JJ admitted. “And sometimes I thought I should tell you anyway and just—take the hit.” 

Sadness creased around his eyes. “I’m glad you didn’t.” 

“You are?”

“Yeah. If they would’ve let you go, you wouldn’t be here right now… and I really like you being here.”

JJ smiled. 

The door handle clicked from the outside. Spencer flinched in surprise, looking up at Hotch, who appeared equally confused at the locked door he encountered. He took the key fob and unlocked the Suburban, and then he climbed in. “I didn’t know I locked you in.” 

“Maybe we locked you out,” Spencer teased in response. Hotch looked over at him beneath the cab light, giving him a certain  _ knowing _ look in a way JJ couldn’t explain—it wasn’t a smile, nothing so mirthful, but the hostility held deep in his usual frown was not there. He appeared placid, almost. Hotch gave Spencer the bag of medicines with his name on them. “Thanks, Hotch.”

“Here.” Hotch held out an ice pack wrapped in paper towels, but instead of putting it in Spencer’s hand, he pressed it directly onto the welt swelling on Spencer’s forehead. Spencer’s hand covered Hotch’s, holding the ice pack in place, and Hotch withdrew. He flicked off the cab light and cranked the vehicle. Without the light, JJ couldn’t make out the details of Spencer’s face. He quieted; the anxious buzz left him. But he wasn’t subdued. Peace radiated from him. “Tell everyone we’re on our way to the station.”

JJ sat back in her seat and replaced her seatbelt. “Sure thing.” 


	10. Chapter 10

“I have silence beaten into my body. I exist in this constant state of rage when my hands don’t know when my mouth can handle it.” -Roya Marsh

…

The police station buzzed with activity. Aaron lifted his hand to his temple at the flashing fluorescent lights within. He felt hot and cold at the same time. The back of his throat itched. His head throbbed between his temples. The light streaked where it struck his eyes, and voices echoed a bit as they refracted off of his ears. 

He swallowed past it as he opened the door for JJ and Reid to follow him into the station. Detective Farraday greeted him. “Agent Hotchner—I’ve set up your team in the conference room. Everything we have on the victim is being run by your analyst. Crime scene photographs are coming back soon.” He looked at Reid. “You feel better now that you’re not Mr. Magoo?”

Reid blinked from behind his glasses. “Who?” 

Detective Farraday tipped his head, assessing Reid. “You are a strange little man.”

Lips pursed into a line, Reid didn’t know how to respond; he looked down at JJ, as if expecting her to supply an answer, but she looked back at him, just as bewildered, so he answered the detective with a firm, “Thanks, I guess.” 

It chafed at Aaron’s nerves, the brusqueness of Detective Farraday. Jokes at Reid’s expense were all fine at Quantico, in the bullpen, on the way home from cases on the plane. They weren’t fine now, and they weren’t funny, and Aaron bit his own tongue to keep from reprimanding the detective only because he knew Reid wouldn’t appreciate it very much. 

Once the detective was out of earshot, JJ muttered, “He’s a bit more of an asshole than I remember.” 

“He’s just blunt. I appreciate his honesty.” 

Aaron opened the door to the conference room. Morgan and Prentiss sat across the table from each other. They’d begun the board, tacking up crime scene photos and information. Morgan glanced back at them. “Now we’re just waiting on Rossi.” 

Prentiss tilted her head back. “And our breakfast.” She sighed dramatically. 

JJ approached the board. “I told you we needed to grab a snack at the airport.” 

“And once again, you are always right.” She pushed herself forward in her seat. 

Aaron slid his keys into his pocket. “Any leads?”

“Everything is a lead. Kid, there are a  _ lot _ of things to hate about you.” Morgan gazed at the board. “Garcia’s running a couple lists. Everyone we had a record of interacting with in 2007 on the Tobias Hankel case. Local religious hate groups—keep in mind we’re in  _ Georgia,  _ so there’s more of them than there should be. Everyone who has access to anonymous donations related to the coroner’s office. And I think we should start a list of academic enemies, too.” 

Reid nodded, raising his eyebrows. “I have a lot of those.” 

Prentiss spun around in her chair to face them. “But are we really thinking an academic had enough rage to do  _ this? _ ” She gestured vaguely at the pictures of the head and the writing on the wall. 

“I have a hobby of reading theses in experimental mathematics and disproving them in my free time, which disqualifies the writer from receiving their Ph. D.” Prentiss and JJ both ogled at him. “I mean… yeah, if somebody wanted to be a doctor bad enough, they might think I had something to do with them not getting their diploma. And they might be right.” 

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, if you cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars and years of my life by disproving my theories on complex math, I’d probably want to strangle you. Let’s get a list of those people, too.”

“Most of them aren’t American, though.” 

“Garcia can crosscheck for anybody in the Atlanta area.” 

Aaron tuned out the conversation, staring at the board. They had  _ nothing _ to go off of, nothing material anyway; the lists they were compiling were going to be comprised of several hundred names, at least. Except… 

Prentiss spun a lock of dark hair around her finger. “Guys, we’re missing the most obvious list.” Everyone looked at her. “Reid—” She spun to face him. “How many people did you talk to from the time you left DC until you came here? People on flights, people on the road, people in gas stations?”

He frowned, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know. Twelve, maybe.” 

“How many of them did you tell you were gay?”

“None. Just my mom, Gideon, and Hotch.”

Morgan twirled a pen between his fingertips. “So how did the unsub know to leave a slur on the wall? Who else would know that?” Reid shrugged. Aaron’s chest bristled; some part of him wanted to leap in, defend Reid from the interrogation. “Are you sure you didn’t mention it to anyone in this area? Or say anything where you might have been overheard?” 

“I’m sure. I left the airport, left my things at the hotel, and paid an old cowboy ten bucks to drop me at Marshall Parish. His plates were from out of county, so I knew he was headed in the right direction. He told me to hop in.”

“You  _ hitchhiked? _ ” Prentiss raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

Reid bobbed his head thoughtfully. “I actually rode in the bed of his truck. I’ve always wanted to do that. I’d never done it before.” 

“I don’t want to hear you get mad at me for texting and driving ever again.” 

“Statistically speaking, distracted driving still kills way more people than—”

Morgan lifted his hand. “Hey, can we focus, please?” Reid and Prentiss both looked at him. “What happened after that?”

“Hotch found me and brought me back to the hotel. I didn’t talk to anyone else.” 

“Hotch, did you go anywhere?”

“I went to McDonalds.” 

“Did you tell anyone—”

Prentiss interrupted, “Morgan, c’mon, Hotch didn’t casually out him when he was placing his order at McDonalds. I’ve been a lesbian my entire life, and I’ve never ordered the girl burger at a fast food joint. That doesn’t just pop up in conversation.” Aaron’s chest relaxed as she rushed to defend him. He felt tight on the inside, protective, though he masked it expertly. She crossed her arms, staring at the board. “We’ve gotta be missing something else.” 

JJ tilted her head. “Spence, you  _ haven’t _ been with anyone, right?” Reid shook his head. Aaron’s eyes darted to his face, but he betrayed nothing. “Not even a date? Did you go to a gay bar?”

“No, I—I haven’t gone anywhere or done anything, not with anyone.” He wrung his hands in front of him. 

To try to spare him the discomfort, Aaron interrupted, “Maybe victimology will give us some more leads.” Reid glanced at him, but not for too long. 

Morgan paused, looking long at Reid, appraisingly. He tilted his head back. “Maybe we’re not missing anything.” He assessed Reid, examined him like a specimen under a magnifying glass. “I mean, no offense, Reid, but, uh… you wouldn’t have to tell me you were gay for me to kinda take a loose guess.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss rolled her chair over, leaning in it to look at Reid from another angle. She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Yeah, Morgan’s got a point.”

“Got a point about what?” Reid pulled at the sleeves of his shirt, gaze bouncing back and forth from Morgan to Prentiss, waiting for one of them to explain themselves. 

Emily shrugged and said somewhat bluntly, “You’re a twink. Or at least you look like a twink. If you aren’t a twink, I’ll eat my own sock.”

“ _ Emily! _ ” JJ scolded. Under another circumstance, Aaron would have found this banter amusing—and even now, Reid’s eyes twinkled with delight, the way they always did when he felt like he was being included among friends—but the matter at hand was too heavy for them to make light of it. His chest ached. In another universe, right now Reid was entering the bullpen to a gaudy coming out party with rainbow ribbons and penis balloons (which Aaron would certainly ignore when he gave Garcia her annual evaluation next month). JJ and Emily bought him another T-shirt to match their pride collection. Morgan gave him a bear hug, and Rossi told him he was proud of him, and Garcia showed him how to make an account on Grindr, much to his chagrin, and everyone got a slice of cake.  _ That  _ was what Reid had deserved. This? This was unfair. Aaron knew by now that life wasn’t fair, and he had mostly come to terms with it, but sometimes (like right now) it felt like a kick in the teeth. 

Morgan held his hands apart. “JJ, c’mon. If you were going to pick a dirty name to call him, which one would you pick? Kid, how many times has somebody called you that in your life?”

“Counting this time? One thousand two hundred and thirteen.”

Aaron ground his jaw. Why was Reid still getting bullied after all these years?  _ He shouldn’t have to deal with that bullshit anymore. _ He blinked a few times. Everything seemed to move behind a yellow haze in his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force the pressure to clear. The back of his throat ached and burned. It hadn’t stopped since he had awoken and yelled for someone to call 911. Had he yelled so loudly? He couldn’t remember; he’d been too focused on the blood all over Spencer’s—Reid’s—face. A chill coursed through him. 

“So, really,” Morgan continued, “we could still be looking at anybody from these other lists. You wouldn’t have had to have told someone you were gay for them to come up with this.” 

The police station door dinged. “Hey, you wanna help me with this?” Rossi’s voice echoed, and Morgan and Emily both hopped from their rolling chairs as Rossi entered the conference room. “ _ Meie bambini! _ ” A young officer trailed behind him, the two of them carrying a tray of coffees and a series of bags, most labelled with the telltale golden arches. However, that brand didn’t catch the eyes of the team.

“You got Dunkin’ for us?” Emily asked, her eyes stretching wide.

“Not for you.” Rossi pushed the Dunkin’ Donuts drinks across the table. “Two Americanos for our crime victims. Hotch, you’ve got a sausage, egg, and cheese.” He dispersed the McDonalds bags between Morgan, Emily, and JJ. “You three each have a coffee, a biscuit sandwich, and a hashbrown. Please share.” He opened a plastic bag with a 711 logo and extended his arm to Reid. “And since there wasn’t a thing on either breakfast menu that I thought you would eat, I stopped at 711 and got you your DinoBuddies and Kraft macaroni and cheese.”

Reid raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Thanks, Rossi.”

“If the cashier at 711 asks, I have a very picky six year old son who demanded DinoBuddies for breakfast.”

A quirk appeared on Reid’s brow. “They believed you have a six year old son at your age?”

Rossi narrowed his eyes. “You wound me, Dr. Reid. Would you like me to take back the DinoBuddies and the macaroni and cheese, since you’re all grown up?”

Reid protectively took the bag. “No, thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Damn, Rossi, what do I have to do to get my favorite food delivered?” Morgan asked as he unwrapped his breakfast sandwich. 

“When somebody leaves a head in your hotel room, I’ll personally show Domino’s how to add toppings to your pizza the way you like it best.” 

Aaron sipped his coffee, standing back out of the way of their shuffling and their bickering. He held the bag containing his sandwich, but though he could smell it, he wasn’t hungry. His whole body gave a dull, tired sort of ache, the kind deep in his bones he got after too many sleepless nights. He didn’t have the motivation to eat.  _ It’s going to be a long day. _ He swallowed the coffee faster, hoping he could turn his blood to caffeine and alleviate some of the discomfort.

To his surprise, Reid stuck the bag of food in the minifridge in the conference room, rather than preparing it in the microwave. He drank his coffee, too, leaning back against the wall as everyone sat at the table and had their breakfast. Rossi opened his manila envelope of things from the ME’s office. “Garcia is still running DNA and dental records through and doesn’t have an ID on our victim yet. White male, early twenties.” He posted pictures on the board of the head and then the body. “Cause of death: blunt force trauma. Head was severed postmortem with something like an axe or, less likely, a guillotine.”

“Any idea how the blood was drained?” Reid asked. “If bloodletting was the goal, it’d be more effective to slash major arteries while the victim is alive. Once he’s dead, getting the blood out of him is more difficult.”

“Victim actually wasn’t missing very much blood. About two pints, which could’ve been runoff from, you know, the head no longer being attached to the body.” Rossi tacked up more images and stuck post-it notes on the board. “Unsub collected what he needed for his purpose, nothing more, nothing less.”

Morgan chewed on his sausage biscuit. “So the graffiti had to have been premeditated. Otherwise, the unsub wouldn’t have carried it up into the room with him.” He swallowed and wiped his mouth with napkins. “We got close-up pictures of the brush strokes. We’re going to take them by local art shops once they’re open and see if anyone has a guess what kind of brush was used.” 

Rossi nodded. “Good plan. We don’t have much to go off of on this victim. He’s got a handful of tattoos, so with everything else we pulled from him, Garcia should have an ID on him soon.” 

Aaron found the images difficult to look at. The graffiti on the wall, the head resting on the chest of drawers—Reid looked at them, completely unflappable, totally detached, but though Aaron mirrored his perceived aloofness, the inside of his mind echoed with gunshots and the sound of Reid screaming his name. He shifted his jaw, fighting to allay some of the tension in his head. “Signs of sexual assault?”

“Yes—well, maybe. ME’s first assumption was sexual assault, but she also said it was possible our John Doe had some rough consensual anal intercourse before his death. No DNA from the body. Unsub was smart enough to use a condom.” 

“And now we’ve come full circle.” Morgan tilted his chair back. “We had just decided the unsub  _ didn’t _ necessarily know Reid was gay. We’re back at square one.”

“We’re going to keep going in circles,” Prentiss said, “until we have an ID on our victim. We can’t know why he was targeted until we know who he was—or even if he was a victim of opportunity, which would make his involvement in all of this one hell of a coincidence.” 

JJ peered over at Reid. “Spence, you don’t know this guy, do you?” Reid shook his head mutely as he drank his coffee. “What are you thinking?” He was too quiet, and that meant the gears in his head were turning. 

“I don’t know yet,” he mumbled in return. “I’ll get back to you when it’s coherent.” 

Aaron pressed his lips into a thin line. The unsub had either raped or had sex with his victim before his death; that had to mean, almost certainly, Reid was targeted for his sexuality.  _ But no one knew. _ His front teeth came down on the tip of his tongue. Reid wouldn’t lie about being with anyone—or at least, Aaron didn’t think he would. Which meant the unsub was either someone Reid knew, or he had seen them together.  _ We weren’t together anywhere public. _ They had kissed in the Marshall Parish cemetery; no one could have seen them there. The sunset and the trees would have blocked anyone from seeing them clearly. Everything else had happened in the hotel room with the door closed and the blinds drawn. No one could have known.  _ Unless there were cameras in place.  _

He couldn’t ask the team to search the room for cameras, not without drawing suspicion. Right now, none of them had questioned what he and Reid had done together in the room, and for both of their sakes, he preferred it that way. Neither he nor Reid would disclose anything.  _ What if he is being stalked? _ It didn’t make any sense to think someone would stalk Reid to attack him more than six hundred miles away from his home. But how else would someone have known if they hadn’t been watching him for an extended period of time? The only other people who knew would never have done something like this to hurt Reid. 

If someone  _ was _ following Reid, he could strike again. Aaron’s stomach twisted with discomfort. He could strike again when Reid was alone, could do anything to him—Aaron was reminded, now, of Reid’s own admitted ineptitude in hand-to-hand combat.  _ What if it’s a warning? _ What if the victim was an example of what would happen to Reid? Aaron pressed a hand to his own temple and swallowed his coffee faster, eager to feel the rush in his bloodstream and the bitterness upon his tongue and the distraction from everything else swirling in his head. 

Reid was right. Nothing in his mind held any clarity right now. Sleep deprivation and physical discomfort fuddled it up. His body gave an ache of the dull variety, like after a hard day of practice with the punching bag. 

The team fell silent, apparently mirroring his own thoughts on the fogginess of the case and the contribution of lack of sleep. Guilt plagued him for calling them in—but it had happened on reflex, without much thought, as he put on his bloodstained shirt and Reid went to the hotel room door and opened it for the police, holding his hands up, and began to ramble what had happened with shock and horror written upon his face, his mismatched socks and flannel pajamas a stark contrast from the blood upon his face. In the crevices of Aaron’s mind, between the,  _ “What the hell just happened?” _ and the,  _ “Is Spencer alright?” _ he reflexively called in the team, because that was what they did in times of trouble and crisis. 

The telephone rang. Aaron’s back muscles tightened, a minute flinch. No one saw. Morgan leaned forward and answered the call. “You’re on speaker, babygirl. Keep your clothes on.”

“Oh, honey, you’d love a strip tease.” Morgan grimaced, raising his eyebrows as he looked up at the team; Garcia, too, fell silent, as if realizing the ramifications of her words a moment too late. She cleared her throat. “Alright,  _ amici e famiglia! _ I finished running DNA and dental on your victim, and I’ve got you an ID.”

“Tell us what you have, Garcia,” Aaron said. 

“Oh captain, my captain, I’m so glad you asked. You’re looking at one Thomas Thompson—from his name, I take it his parents had a sense of humor, or at least they did twenty-five years ago.” She cleared her throat. “Thompson is a twenty-five year old male, and this kid did not have a very happy life, to say the least. At the age of fourteen, Thompson came out as gay to his parents, Mary and Rod Thompson, and from then on out, his life went  _ downhill, _ like if downhill were actually just nose-diving straight off of a cliff. He was sent to almost every youth ‘reparative camp’ in the southern United States—that’s what they’re calling religious conversion therapy these days, I guess.” 

Prentiss rested her elbow on the table, holding her chin in her hand while she looked at the phone. Morgan’s face turned, disgruntled. Reid’s expression remained impassive as he listened. “I have records of him attending  _ ten _ different camps—forwarding the list to your phones. He ran away from home three times, got rounded up and returned each time. At the age of seventeen, he dropped out of high school, but they apparently still had a good hold on him, because at eighteen, they sent him to Love In Action, which is a conversion camp for young adults just north of San Francisco.”

Reid lifted his head. “They came under fire last year. They’ve been blamed for numerous suicides due to the torture within their walls. There were rumors that they closed.” 

“Rumors, yes, not true—they merely exchanged hands under the table and are under new management with a new name, Restoration Path.” 

“That’s insidious,” Rossi said. 

“Oh, yes, it is— _ quite _ insidious. Thompson reportedly fled from Love In Action and came back home to Atlanta, but he has not had any exchanges with his parents since they left him in California—no texts, phone calls, emails. Looks like he was totally disowned. He spent a good bit of time on the streets, in and out of homeless shelters, before he landed with his boyfriend, Robert Stark. They have been together for six years. Thompson did get his GED, but he didn’t hold a steady job. He’s been in and out of prostitution and stripping since he left Love In Action. His phone received a few text messages from Stark overnight, all wondering where he was and when he would be home, and about an hour ago, Stark filed a missing persons report on Thompson.”

Aaron put his coffee down on the counter behind him. “We need to talk to Stark and the Thompson family.”

Garcia interrupted, “Wait, sir, one more thing, and—boy, this  _ really _ sucks.” They all exchanged a glance over the conference table. “As we all know, same-sex marriage is illegal in the state of Georgia, and laws surrounding civil partnerships are squicky at best. I’ve done some digging, but most twenty-five year olds don’t have a living will…”

Emily finished, “The parents who disowned him are going to be responsible for collecting his body and burying him.” 

“Yeah.” Garcia’s voice was soft. 

“It’s Tom Bridegroom all over again. We get to tell Stark his partner is dead and then tell him he has no legal protections and Thompson’s homophobic family is entitled to half of their belongings.” JJ became subdued as she spoke. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the coffee cup in her hand. 

Rossi pushed back from the table. “This job really sucks sometimes.”

“Is that all you have for us, Garcia?” Aaron asked. 

“I have a message from Chief Strauss—she very specifically said you should call her on your way back to the jet. She was swearing under her breath, but to paraphrase what I  _ could _ hear, she’s going to spank all of your little booties until they’re cherry red, and she definitely did not mean it in a fun way.” 

Pressing his lips tighter together, Aaron worked to keep himself from smiling inadvertently; Garcia always managed to cheer him up, no matter how inappropriate her ravings. “Thank you, Garcia.” He ended the call. “I’ll have to call Strauss.” 

Reid wore a tight, grim expression. “Do you guys still think the unsub didn’t know I’m gay?”

It was a rhetorical question; it didn’t need an answer, and more than that, no one could provide an answer, not a real one, not a good one. Prentiss reached for her keys. “I’ll go talk to Stark.” 

Morgan stood. “Oh, you get Stark, and me and Rossi get the homophobic family?”

“If I wanted to talk to homophobic family, I’d call my mom. JJ, you coming?” 

JJ’s eyes darted to Prentiss, but then she looked at Reid and at Aaron. “Actually, I think it might be time to do forensic interviews with both of you—if you’re okay with that.” Under no other circumstances would she have asked if it was  _ okay _ ; they were material witnesses. She needed their testimony. She phrased it like a question, but neither of them could reasonably refuse. 

Reid nodded, swallowing hard. “Sure.” The rest of the team began to file out of the conference room.

Aaron took his phone from his pocket. “Of course. I’m going to call Strauss. I’ll be right outside when you need me.” He stepped out of the room. Rossi tossed Morgan the keys as he texted on his phone, presumably seeking out an address from Garcia, and Prentiss put on her earpiece and dialed for Garcia. She wasted no time in jumping behind the wheel, cranking the Suburban, and driving off, while Rossi and Morgan continued to banter among themselves. 

They were comfortable here—as comfortable as they ever were when working a murder case, anyway. They weren’t letting Reid’s involvement cloud their judgment.  _ Why is it different for me? _

Aaron knew why. He hoped they didn’t figure it out. The drive to protect Reid pulsed inside of him, and he stifled and bridled it like an unruly horse, bringing it down under his reins. He couldn’t let anyone know what had transpired between them. It wasn’t relevant; his presence in that room was merely a coincidence, as far as he could tell. He hadn’t been targeted. Someone was looking to hurt Reid, and he could do the most good, offer the most help, by being  _ here _ with the team working the case. If they told the truth, the insignificant truth, they risked one or both of them getting pulled off of the case, and that hurt the investigation. 

Afterward? They could sort out  _ afterward _ once they reached it. 

Reluctantly, he turned on his cell phone again, watching as the screen lit up and messages streamed in.  _ Four _ missed calls from Strauss petered into his phone. He raised his eyebrows, resisting the urge to mutter a string of curses under his breath, and he stepped outside of the police station into the humid Georgia morning air. 

The steam stuck to him where he exited the building. He shivered. Inside, he had felt chilled, but outside, in the breeze, it bit into him. He opened the weather app on his phone.  _ It’s seventy-five. I shouldn’t be cold. _ The exhaustion was getting to him. He opened Strauss’s contact information and called her back. Part of him hoped she wouldn’t answer. 

Hope had never served him well. 

“Agent Hotchner, I hope you are  _ on your way _ back to the airfield as we speak.”

He clenched his jaw. “I am not.  _ Ma’am. _ ” Her voice crackled with vitriol. “One of my agents was targeted in a hate crime. My team will not stand idly by while one of our own is a victim.” 

“I am not asking you to.”

“It sounds like you are.  _ Ma’am. _ ” 

Her icy voice resounded back at him. “You were not invited in.”

“Detective Farraday agreed to file the appropriate paperwork to invite us in retroactively. No one on the local PD has had any issue with the BAU’s presence here. Many of them worked with us in 2007.”

“Then you will come home, and  _ when _ Detective Farraday files his report to invite in the bureau, I will be sure to have it forwarded to the appropriate team, which in this case would be the hate crimes division,  _ not _ the BAU. You have cases here that need your attention.”

“My team will not operate effectively on any other cases until the unsub who targeted Dr. Reid is apprehended. It seems most efficient for us to make the best use of our resources.”

“Dr. Reid can be granted leave. I can even arrange to have him placed in WITSEC if you like. But the BAU needs to come  _ home _ , Aaron.” 

Aaron muzzled himself to keep from saying something too unkind or out of line, especially about the efficacy of WITSEC. “Did you look at the crime scene photos we’ve shared with Miss Garcia? Or read her report on the identity of the victim whose decapitated head was left in the hotel room?”

She spoke slowly, almost patiently. “I did not.”

“I suggest you do that. And once you’ve given the files a good look, tell me you don’t think this case could benefit from the BAU’s expertise.”

“I resist the urge to penalize you for insubordination.” She was bristling; he heard it in her voice. “Any case can benefit from the BAU’s expertise. But your unit has appeared in front of the board of directors  _ twice _ in the last  _ two years. _ That’s a record. Your team has a tendency to go rogue when things get personal. The last two cases you worked which impacted members of your team directly left numerous people dead in excessive shows of unnecessary lethal force. I am pulling you off of this case.” 

Strauss was right. The director would not like to see them for a third time in as many years if things went south with this case. Aaron had beaten George Foyet to death with his bare hands; in their attempt to save Declan Doyle, they had caused the deaths of three internationally wanted criminals. If another personal case ended with, as the bureau put it, an unnecessary show of excessive lethal force, Aaron would be hard pressed to escape the ramifications. 

“You may punish me for insubordination if you like. And if this case goes awry, I take full responsibility for any collateral damage. But my team is here, and we are working this case.” He listened to her take a heavy breath. “Good day, ma’am.” He ended the call. 

If she wanted something more from him, she would call back. She didn’t. 

It was his responsibility to protect Reid. Yesterday morning, when he talked with Gideon, he had taken upon himself the duty of guarding Reid, protecting his heart, even if that meant denying them both something they wanted in order to keep his feelings intact. Now, only twenty-four hours later, he found himself facing a much more material threat. It was faceless, but it was real. 

In Aaron’s mind, the man behind the mask wore a buzz of silver hair with wrinkles set deep in his face and a callous, cruel smile, and no matter how many times Aaron punched him, he kept bouncing back up like a damn bop bag toy. Aaron slid his phone into his pocket and pressed both hands to his temples, closing his eyes tightly. The pressure didn’t alleviate his headache. Behind his eyelids, the three flashes of light lit the room, three rounds missing their target, and the blood on Reid’s face stuck to his hand, and there was the face again—

He drank in a deep breath and shivered. His whole body burned and ached.  _ This is too personal. _ He needed to take a step back. If he didn’t separate himself from this investigation, he would jeopardize it—and his team would realize something was up. He had to remain neutral, had to stop feeling the panic he had felt when he had balled up his shirt and pressed it firmly to Reid’s temple and gazed into his eyes and wondered, wondered only for a moment, if he was going to watch Reid die. 

The door to the station swung open. A cop in uniform came out. He opened a pack of cigarettes and stood next to Aaron. “You alright there, buddy?”

Aaron looked at him, taking a step away from him so the stench of tobacco smoke wouldn’t cling to his suit. “Fine, thank you.” The officer held out the pack of cigarettes, offering him one. Aaron did not allow himself to react, though inside, he grimaced. “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” The officer lit the end of his cigarette and took a long drag on it. “So the skinny guy is a queer, huh?” This time, Aaron did not restrain his grimace, and he scowled at the cop, but the man did not look at him, instead blowing smoke rings and staring off into the distance. “He’s a squirrelly little twerp, but he seems sweet. Hope you catch the guy who did it.” 

Aaron’s supply of patience for people insulting Reid had run rather thin, but out of respect for Reid’s wishes, he held his tongue—though the task was becoming increasingly difficult each time one of these men took a dig at him. “Right. Thank you.” He passed by the officer before the man could say something else disparaging about Reid, no matter how well-intended, and use the last ounce of Aaron’s self control to keep from knocking his teeth out. His body ached, his head throbbed, and his ordinarily endless reservoir of endurance had finally run dry. 

Reentering the police station, Aaron waited by the door of the conference room. His phone buzzed with a message to the group chat. 

E Prentiss:  _ Just arrived at the Stark residence. _

D Rossi:  _ We’re heading in to talk to the Thompsons. _

A Hotchner:  _ Stay safe. _

He didn’t like Prentiss going in alone, but he trusted her judgment. She’d certainly gotten herself out of stickier situations than this one. He and Reid couldn’t assist in questioning the victims’ families; they were material witnesses, and talking with the families could muddle their recollection. 

Perhaps Strauss was right; perhaps it would be better for them not to take charge in this investigation. But Aaron didn’t want to relinquish control to someone, anyone, else. Somewhere out there, a man had slaughtered an innocent gay man and planted the head in Reid’s room to harass him, to slur him, to pour blood all over his face and taunt him. How could he trust another team with that investigation? How could his team move on to another case while they knew the man who did that to Reid was still out there?

The door to the conference room swung open, and JJ and Reid emerged. Reid bowed forward at the shoulders, making himself shorter. Under the lights of the station, bags appeared under his eyes. The sleeplessness had begun to catch up with him. “How’d it go with Strauss?” JJ asked. 

“About as well as you’d expect,” Aaron said, inclining his eyebrows. “She wants us back on the jet faster than the crack of a whip.”

JJ stiffened. “We’re not going, are we?”

He shook his head. “No. We’re not.”

“What is she even proposing we do? Just pretend this didn’t happen?” 

He crossed his arms, rocking back on his heels. “She wants to wait until Detective Farraday has filed the appropriate forms, and then she wants to send in the hate crimes division to handle the investigation.”

Reid’s brow furrowed. “The hate crimes division can’t take this case. She should know that.” 

Aaron frowned in return. “What do you mean?”

“Only a handful of states have added sexual orientation to their list of protected classes under hate crime law. Georgia isn’t one of them. What happened here isn’t a hate crime—at least, not legally speaking. There are no grounds to bring in the hate crimes division. They wouldn’t be able to accept the case.” 

JJ lifted one hand to her temple. “So Strauss’s great plan is to bring us home and pass the case to a unit that can’t even accept it.”

“We’re not going home until this case is solved,” Aaron promised her. Strauss could take his badge if she wanted it, only after this unsub was behind bars and Reid was safe again. He did his best to play her political game in a way that would not harm him, his team, or anyone’s professional reputation, but he couldn’t toe the line when one of his team members was at stake, especially not Reid. 

Especially not Reid. 

JJ’s gaze darted from Aaron to Reid and back again. “If you’re ready?” she invited, again in the form of a question where he knew there was no question being asked; he didn’t have a choice about undergoing a forensic interview. He had a responsibility to offer the team everything he knew, everything he had seen, even that which he didn’t consciously recognize. 

He worried it would fuddle up in his mind. He avoided the memories, because if he looked at them, the man behind the mask became Foyet, and the reality he had lived crossed wires with the nightmares following in his shadow.

“Of course,” he said. He could control it. He  _ knew _ what had happened logically. The interview would help him know more clearly what he saw, would help him discern the fiction from reality, and once he had slept more so his body no longer throbbed and ached and shivered, everything would become more clear. Perhaps they would even have a lead. 

JJ led him into the conference room. Reid took his DinoBuddies and Kraft to the microwave on the other side of the station; Aaron watched him go with an odd pang of longing. His eyelids were heavy. He sat across from JJ in front of the long table, trying not to look at the evidence board. The lights were off; he assumed Reid had turned them off for his interview so he could focus. Aaron didn’t flick them back on. The darkness granted some anonymity, something which made him more comfortable sitting across from JJ in this context. He placed his hands in his lap. 

Her voice, slow and smooth, broke the silence like a pebble breaching the surface of a still, calm pool. “I’d like you to close your eyes now.” She spoke soothing words, like a balm rubbed upon a wound. “Remember, you’re someplace safe. This is a safe place. Nothing can hurt you here.”  _ She missed out on her career as a hypnotist. _ Aaron focused on the sound of her voice; it was less uncomfortable, the more he relaxed and allowed himself to sink into her words. Relinquishing the control was difficult, but it was necessary. “Focus on that moment in the hotel room. When did you first know something was wrong?” 

_ “Hotch!” At the first sound of his name, Aaron braced himself against the nightmare—an odd one, for Spencer to scream his name like that. He nuzzled into the pillow and pawed one hand across the bed to touch Spencer, to remind himself it was only a nightmare— “Hotch! Oh my god,  _ **_Hotch!_ ** _ ” The bed was bare and cold beneath his touch. Aaron sat bolt upright. “Hotch,  _ **_help!_ ** _ ”  _

“Spencer is yelling my name.”  _ Spencer. _ It was too late to eat his words. “First I think I’m dreaming. By the second time, I know I’m not.” 

_ Eyes adjusting to the near-blackness of the room, Aaron gazed across the room. Over the opposite bed, a figure in a white mask loomed over Spencer. Aaron tore the nightstand drawer open and seized his gun. He pointed it, but Spencer sat up in the bed between him and the figure, thrashing and moving.  _

“Spencer’s between me and him. I don’t have a clear shot.”

“Focus on the figure. What does he look like?”

Aaron sank in on that image, the darkness, the long shadow cast over the bed by the man. “He’s wearing a white cloth mask. The mouth is cut out of it. He’s smiling. He’s wearing Spencer’s glasses.” He hesitated. “He’s tall.”

“Tall as you?”

“At least. I think he’s taller.” Aaron did not encounter many people taller than him; that would set the unsub apart.

“Is that all you can see?”

“He’s wearing gloves. Leather gloves, I think.” Aaron couldn’t make out any exposed skin. He couldn’t even identify the unsub’s race. How the hell were they going to catch a guy whose sole physical descriptor was  _ very tall? _

“What happens next?”

_ The man loomed over Spencer, leaning closer, closer. Spencer blocked his shot from every angle. The man turned on his heel. Aaron dove across the space between the beds, arm extended, and landed on Spencer’s chest, pinning him to the mattress safe out of range from his shot. The last wisp of the man vanished out the second story window. Aaron fired once—the window shattered. Twice—the second window. Thrice—the bullet ricocheted through the wall.  _ I’m going to hit someone in another room,  _ he realized. He dropped his gun. Warm, sticky fluid covered his hand where he held Spencer down to the mattress, and he reached for the lamp, the light crossing the blood all over his face, wide brown eyes meeting his with terror.  _

“By the time Spencer’s safe from the shot, he’s out the window. I think Spencer’s bleeding. I don’t pursue.” He couldn’t have pursued, not while thinking Spencer had a head injury, not while seeing his horrified eyes round as saucers. “I look out on the street when I realize Spencer’s not hurt, but there are no street lights. He’s long gone.” 

“Right.” In the dim light, JJ’s eyes glittered. “Thank you for protecting him.” 

The gratitude took him aback. “Of course.” He would have done it for anyone on his team—but Reid was special. Reid was more special to Aaron than he would admit to anyone except Reid himself. His fingers steepled in his lap at the thought, wondering when they next would be alone together and feeling like a sinner for wondering it. Was it selfish? His mind still refused to focus. He viewed everything through a haze. 

JJ stood and went for the light switch, casting the room in the yellow glow of fluorescent lights. “Hey, Hotch?” He looked back at her. “Are you feeling alright?”

He blinked. “Yeah, I’m fine.”  _ Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m alright? _ He hadn’t had so many people inquire about his well being since Haley had died. Then, it was explicable—tied to one life-altering event. Surely the concern wasn’t related to the hotel room invasion? As much as it infuriated Aaron, this was not altogether unheard of for the team. They all tended to get into more trouble than they bargained for. 

“You look a little flushed, that’s all.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Thanks,” he replied dryly. She ducked her head, giving an apology, and opened the door to the conference room. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! if you're enjoying, please leave a comment, and please feel free to hit me up on tumblr @thefandomlesbian and @thecriminalmindslesbian

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” -Alfred Tennyson

...

The shoulder of Emily’s pantsuit bore a large, dark tear stain from the weeping man beside her. She almost regretted taking dibs on this guy— _ almost. _ Whatever Morgan and Rossi were dealing with right now, she was sure it was more infuriating than this. But this never got easier; it never improved. She had learned the best techniques in her years working on the team, but the pain of looking into the eyes of a vulnerable, frightened person and giving them the worst news they would ever hear, that pain never lessened. 

He had grabbed her, hugged her, and buried his face into the shoulder of her suit, and while she wanted to withdraw, she doubted he had anyone else to hug like this, so instead she patted him halfheartedly on the back. “I’m so sorry.” There was no reassurance she could offer. She could not promise,  _ It’s going to be okay,  _ because it wasn’t. It wasn’t going to be okay; it would never be okay again, not really, not in a way that mattered. Maybe the scars would close up, would heal with time. Maybe they would remain open wounds forever. Emily knew people who grieved in so many different ways. None of them were the same. None of them were any less painful. “Can you tell me what happened with Thomas yesterday?” she asked. “When did you last see him?”

Robert Stark rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with his fists. “We—We had dinner together, here. We always have dinner together.” He swallowed hard, biting his knuckles. “He had clients who—clients who offered to pay more to meet him for dinner, but he always refused. He always stayed to have dinner with me before he left for the night.” He buried his head in his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t believe—” His breath shuddered. 

“Thomas was still working as a prostitute?”

Stark nodded. “Yeah—Yeah. He got his GED, tried to get other jobs, but nothing—nothing paid as well.” He blew his nose into a wad of tissues. “Lots of these businessmen, they’ll pay anything to get what they really want, as long as their wives don’t find out about it.” 

Emily raised her eyebrows. “Were there any clients Thomas remarked about that he thought could be dangerous? That asked him to do things he wasn’t comfortable with? Or became obsessive?” Stark shook his head, looking befuddled as he wiped his eyes. “Do you know who he was planning on meeting last night?” 

He nodded. “Yeah—Yeah. He’s, uh, his name’s Grant. He called me about—about eleven last night, asking where Thomas was. He never showed for their appointment at nine-thirty. That was when I started calling Thomas. His phone kept going straight to voicemail.” He dabbed at the corners of his eyes, but the tears refused to stop falling. “Then, this morning, this had been pushed under the apartment door.”

He slid her a note. She took it from him and unfolded it. In bold, blocky red letters, she read the words DIE FAG. “Did you show this to the police?”

“Mhm. That was when I decided to file the missing persons report. The police—they told me it was probably just a bad joke, or a prank—they didn’t even want to keep it as evidence.” He kept wiping his eyes and twitching his fingers. “I knew it had to be more than that, but I thought maybe it was Thomas’s family…” 

“Has he had any contact with his family recently?” 

Stark’s jaw shifted back and forth. “He, uh, he tried a few weeks ago to talk to his dad. He heard through the grapevine his dad had cancer. Terminal.” He licked his lips. “But things didn’t go so well. I don’t know what was said, exactly, but he cried for hours.” 

Emily made a mental note to dig deeper into the family, but she doubted they would turn up anything. Someone had known Reid  _ and _ Thompson—or perhaps Thompson was still just a victim of opportunity, marked for his sexuality and the fact that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. “And you’re sure Thomas didn’t plan on meeting anyone else before he met Grant last night?”

“If he was, he didn’t tell me.”

“Can I have Grant’s contact information?”

“Sure. Just—please be discreet. His family doesn’t know. He has young kids.”

Emily collected it. “Of course.” They would try their best to keep from totally upending his life, as long as he didn’t show any signs of being the unsub. “I have one more question, Mr. Stark.” He blinked at her. “Did anyone other than you and Thomas’s doctor know he was HIV positive?” 

His eyes widened. “Oh—Well,  _ everyone _ knew. Thomas was really careful. He told all of his clients. He always kept up, every year, on the new research of which condoms were the most effective, and he refused to do anything unprotected, no matter how much money he was offered.” He hesitated. He sat to the front of the soft chair. “Agent Prentiss, how—how did Thomas die? Can I see him?”

She covered his hand with hers. “You don’t need to remember him like that. How you remember him now is how he would like to be remembered, I’m sure.” If someone ever cut off her head and left it in a stranger’s hotel room, she  _ prayed _ JJ wouldn’t find out about it or see her like that. Her stomach flipped at the thought, a bitter taste rising in the back of her mouth. “My team is at Thomas’s parents’ house right now.” A stricken look crossed his face. “Because of state laws, they are legally his next of kin and are responsible for claiming his body and making arrangements for his services.” He buried his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Emily had a great number of complaints about life in DC. But at least she knew, if anything happened to her, JJ would be able to take care of her and follow through her wishes. She knew they could be married where they lived; she knew, if Will decided to bite the bullet and give up his custodial rights to Henry, she could adopt him as JJ’s partner. Her heart ached for this man, who not only lost his partner, but also lost his right to participate in the following process. First he was robbed of his love. Then, he was robbed of his dignity, stripped of his right to bury the man he loved. 

She took the note from him, bagged it, put it in her purse, and then she gave him her card. “If you can think of anything else, please, give us a call. We’re doing everything we can to find the man who did this.”

He licked his lips. “Agent Prentiss?” She paused, looking at him. “If—If Thomas only died a few hours ago, why—why is the FBI here?” He wrung his hands. “I’ve lived in this city my whole life… It’s hard to get the regular police to care when a gay prostitute gets murdered, much less the federal government. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

She had to say something; it had to be honest, and it couldn’t reveal too much. “We think Thomas’s death is connected to a hate crime that was committed last night against one of our agents.” 

His brow furrowed. “What—What kind of hate crime?” 

She sighed. “I can’t say. But Thomas’s blood was recovered from the scene.”  _ And something a lot worse than his blood. _ “We have two eyewitnesses who saw the suspect at the second scene. Everything is on our side. We’re going to find this man. At least you can have that for closure.” 

He looked down at his lap, and he nodded slowly; he did not take away anything positive from her reassurance. “Right. Thank you.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Stark.”

Emily hopped back into the Suburban. She didn’t crank it yet; as much as she joked about texting and driving, she wouldn’t actually do it—she only entertained the notion to tease JJ and Reid, who both liked to worry themselves when it wasn’t necessary. She opened the BAU group text. 

E Prentiss:  _ Note slid under the door of the apartment overnight. *image attachment* _

D Rossi: _ Any prior threats? _

E Prentiss:  _ No _

D Morgan:  _ Think we should get Stark into WITSEC? _

E Prentiss:  _ Dunno. Hotch? _

A Hotchner:  _ Do you think Thompson was a victim of circumstance, or did he have enemies? Was he targeted personally? _

E Prentiss:  _ Don’t think so. He was a prostitute but was fastidious about protection per Stark. Didn’t have personal enemies outside of his family. Have a lead on a client he was supposed to meet last night. Stark says he never showed for the appointment. I have his contact information. Was asked to be discreet. He has a wife and kids.  _

D Morgan:  _ Shit. _

A Hotchner:  _ We can be discreet unless we have reason to suspect him. _

E Prentiss:  _ That was what I told him. Stark seemed fairly confident he had nothing to do with it but it’s worth having Garcia do a search. _

🌺Garcia🌺:  _ Get me his information and I’ll work some magic for you. _

E Prentiss:  _ Thanks, Garcia. Where are JJ and Reid? _

A Hotchner:  _ Sharing DinoBuddies. _

D Rossi:  _ You talk to Strauss? _

A Hotchner:  _ Yeah. She’s not happy. With our record of appearing in front of the board of directors, she wants us to toe the line and transfer the case to the hate crimes division. _

D Morgan:  _ To hell with the hate crimes division! We’re already here. We’re going to catch this SOB and put him behind bars. We’re not leaving, are we? _

A Hotchner:  _ No. How’d it go with the Thompsons? _

D Rossi:  _ Solid alibi. Both parents at a dinner party last night until early in the morning. Father is in no condition to commit murder. He’s terminally ill. Mother is a bitch, but she seemed genuinely shocked. Don’t think they were involved. _

A Hotchner:  _ Get back to the station. Let’s review what we have. _

E Prentiss: 👍

D Rossi:  _ On our way. _

…

Rossi and Morgan arrived back at the station first. Aaron hovered in front of the evidence board as they entered. “You got anything new?” Morgan asked as he leaned against the table, peering past Aaron to view the board. “Stroke of genius hit Reid yet?” Aaron shook his head, too deep in thought to give a verbal answer, though his thoughts cycled endlessly with  _ Who? _ and  _ Why? _ and reached no conclusions. “Has Garcia run any of the lists?”

Morgan required more than nonverbal cue from him. Aaron turned to face him and Rossi, who stirred a cup of coffee with the station’s logo on the side.  _ They’re all exhausted. _ Perhaps it would do more good to send everyone to the hotel early and have a long night’s rest before starting again tomorrow.  _ But… _ His heart refused to slow down as he considered,  _ What if he comes back? _ He blinked a few times. He  _ wouldn’t _ leave Spencer alone. Nothing could happen to him while they were together. Aaron didn’t care if it meant he wouldn’t sleep. He had to keep Spencer safe. 

“Yeah.” Aaron blew a sigh out his nose. The lack of hits on the lists had made it all seem even more insurmountable. “No nearby hits on the academics list. A fire at the coroner’s office three years ago destroyed all of the recorders and killed the last medical examiner, so if anyone knows about the Hankel grave, it’s no longer on record. All of the cops we met in 2007 are clean.” He had dug into Detective Farraday, too, partly to cover all of his bases and partly because Aaron did not like him at all. He had a history of domestic battery (Spencer had told him as much about law enforcement officers), but he was otherwise squeaky clean. 

Rossi also propped himself up on the corner of the table to stare at the board. “So now we have more questions than answers.” JJ trotted into the room. “Enjoy your DinoBuddies?” Rossi asked as he sipped his coffee. She brushed him off. “Where’s the good doctor now? We’re coming up empty on leads; we could use a stroke of genius right about now.” 

“He was getting overstimulated. He said he’d take a few minutes in one of the storage rooms to try to think.” The door to the station rang as Prentiss entered with long strides. She pinned the note on the board, and then she greeted JJ with a chaste kiss. JJ looked at the note. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s another thing that we have no idea what it means,” Morgan said, steepling his fingers. He sat in one of the rolling chairs. “Do we have _ anything _ useful?” 

Aaron turned on his heel. “Yeah. We do. Let’s start with what we do know. Look at victimology.” 

Prentiss sat down in another rolling chair beside Morgan, and JJ sat on the table facing her. “Thompson was a prostitute. What we interpreted as sexual assault may have been consensual. Everyone knew he was HIV positive, and he was fastidious about protection. But there was a regular client he was supposed to meet last night, and he never made it to the appointment—Garcia is checking on the client’s background now, and she’s also running his phone records.” 

Rossi nodded. “No signs of torture—he’s not a sadist.”

“What if we’re missing a psychological angle?” JJ proposed. “He could be a psychosocial sadist. A manipulator. What if, for him, the exciting part is instilling fear? That would explain why he went out of his way to make sure Spence saw him and was afraid of him without actually hurting him—and why he decided to torment the partner after the fact.” 

A cop entered the conference room. “Hey, that fairy just shut himself in one of our storage closets.”

“That  _ what? _ ” Morgan asked, standing from the table to face the uniform. 

Aaron whirled around. “Excuse me?” 

“What did you just say?” Rossi put down his coffee.

Prentiss and JJ flanked Rossi. Prentiss scowled. “You’re gonna want to remove yourself from my line of sight.” JJ was silent, her face both shocked and reproachful. All five of them faced the cop, whose pale face seemed to indicate he understood he had just stepped  _ far _ over the line.

Detective Farraday followed him. “Hey, your weirdo just—”

Aaron snapped, “He’s not  _ weird, _ he’s autistic!”

“Hotch!” Morgan and JJ reprimanded in unison, as Rossi added, “ _ Aaron, _ ” and Prentiss, too aghast by his inappropriate disclosure to form a solid rebuke, rasped, “ _ Dude. _ ”

Detective Farraday blinked, taken aback by the whole dynamic, the team squaring up against his newbie cop who shivered in terror, them turning against Aaron, all of them facing down the force like an enemy. Aaron took a step forward. “If you have a problem with one of my agents and their conduct, you can take it up with me. I will not tolerate any slander against anyone here, and if I hear one more slur directed at Dr. Reid or anyone else on my team by someone in this police department, I will arrest that person for obstruction of justice and harassment of a federal officer. Do I make myself clear?”

The detective set his jaw, standing up tall. He didn’t like the challenge. But he also seemed to recognize Aaron could put him on his ass if he wanted to—and Aaron  _ wanted to, _ but he needed to solve this crime. “Crystal.”

“Good.” 

The door slammed closed behind the cops as they left the room. But the team wouldn’t rest; he had crossed a line, and they were all going to make sure he knew it. “Hotch, that isn’t your information to disclose.” Prentiss crossed her arms. “You  _ know _ he doesn’t tell people, especially not in the field. What the hell’s the matter with you?” 

“Out of line, Aaron.” Rossi picked up his coffee again. Morgan stared at him with a look somewhere between reproach and shock. JJ, however, had a rather odd, considerate expression upon her face.

“I know, and I’ll apologize when I see him.” Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose. Spencer was going to be upset with him; Aaron had completely violated his trust. “I’ve been listening to these cops make digs at him since two o’clock this morning. I’m out of patience for it.” 

Morgan scowled. “You mean that wasn’t the first time one of them has called him a name?” He gestured at the door, vaguely indicating the police force as a whole, the department which had supposedly welcomed them to assist in this investigation. Aaron shook his head. “Okay, that’s not acceptable. But neither is what you said.”

“I know.”  _ I don’t know what got into me. _ His head throbbed, his throat ached, his body panged with a dull tenderness all over, and he felt  _ cold.  _ He had never acted so out of line with a police officer before—and there certainly had been times that he’d wanted to. But the whole world rested behind a fog in his eyes. Everything seemed distant and close at the same time. 

Prentiss settled back down in the rolling chair. “Robert Stark mentioned the police were incredibly dismissive when he filed his missing persons report this morning. I don’t think the people we’re working with here are going to be incredibly forthcoming to help us with the nature of this crime.” 

JJ kept looking at him oddly, that tilt to her head. She approached him. “Hotch.” He looked at her. She extended a hand. He went to take a step back, but she was faster, pressing the back of her hand to his cheek. “Holy shit, you’re burning up.” 

They converged upon him like rabid wolves, circling up around him. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re sick,” JJ said. 

Prentiss touched his face, too. “She’s right. You need to go back to the hotel and rest. You’re going to infect all of us.”

“I’m not going to infect anyone. I’m  _ not  _ sick—Will everyone please stop touching my face?” 

“We’ll stop when you go back to the hotel and get some rest,” Rossi said. 

“I’m fine—” Aaron tried to argue again.

JJ cut him off. “You’re  _ not _ fine. I’m a mom. You’re pale, you have flushed cheeks, your eyes are glossy, you have goosebumps like you’re chilling, and your face is hotter than a stovetop. You’re  _ sick. _ ” 

The door swung open. “Guys, I think I’ve got something.” Spencer rushed right past all of them to the board. “This same graffiti was written on Tobias Hankel’s grave.” He looked at the note Prentiss had pinned to the board, the block letters. “See, it’s the same shape—the one in the graveyard was also painted on. When I looked at it, I thought it was strange, because the other vandalism was in spray paint, but these two words were painted on with a brush. These brush strokes are really interesting—the first artist I thought of when I saw them was Francis Bacon.” 

“The philosopher?” Morgan asked, eyebrows drawing together skeptically.

“No. Francis Bacon was a gay Irish painter in the twentieth century. Of course, there are  _ dozens _ of other artists that use the same type of stroke, at least to the untrained eye, and these types of brushes are fairly generic and mainstream. But if the Bacon imitation was deliberate, then…” Spencer looked back at them, and he trailed off. “You’ve all got weird looks on your faces. Is my fly down or something?”

JJ cleared her throat. “Hotch is sick.” 

Aaron flexed his jaw, half-expecting Spencer to deliver a well-deserved,  _ I told you so, _ but instead his face twisted into a concerned frown. “Oh.” He put down the pen in his hand on the ledge of the evidence board. “We should go back to the hotel.” Aaron looked mutely from him to the rest of the team, uncertain what he expected—they all had voiced their opinions that he belonged in bed, resting, which was exactly where he didn’t want to be right now. None of them would defend him. “Come on. I was with you all day yesterday. I’ve already been exposed. The least we can do is try not to spread it to everyone else.”

“He’s right, Hotch,” Morgan provided. “We won’t be able to solve this case if we’re all sick.” 

Spencer walked past him to the conference room door, looking back at him and waiting for him to catch up. He sighed. “Fine. Keep us informed, and call me if anything changes.” The vague non-agreement they provided in response did absolutely nothing to reassure him. He reached into his pocket for his keys. Feeling around for them, he glanced down. Then, he heard them tinkering. 

Spencer held the keyring up in the air with a lopsided, sheepish smile on his face. “Magic trick.” Aaron raised his eyebrows, and he followed Spencer out of the room, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He was impressed, though he wouldn’t admit it, with how much Spencer’s pickpocketing skills had improved. 

The door closed behind them, and after a few seconds passed, the team knew they wouldn’t return. Morgan rocked back on his heels, crossing his arms. “Did anybody else just see Reid pick Hotch’s pocket without any fear or consequence?”

“Yeah,” JJ said. “It was weird.”

“Reid’s afraid to pick  _ my _ pocket,” Prentiss said. “Where’d he get the balls to do it to Hotch?” 

Rossi shrugged. “Hotch has been weird all morning. Reid probably doesn’t want a sick man driving him around. And maybe after all this—” He gestured to the board in front of him. “—he’s decided he doesn’t fear death or God.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows. “I guess I can see that.” 

JJ looked over them. “C’mon, let’s focus. Let’s try to follow that Francis Bacon lead.” 

…

Aaron climbed into the passenger side of the Suburban. It occurred to him— _ I don’t think I’ve ever ridden with Spencer before. _ He had  _ driven _ Spencer a ton of places, because Aaron always drove, but Spencer rarely ended up behind the wheel except when it was an absolute necessity. Aaron shivered. His body throbbed with dull aches; his skin seared where the clothing touched it. His throat burned. 

He hadn’t felt so  _ physically _ miserable since Foyet had stabbed him. 

To his surprise, Spencer cranked the Suburban and reached to adjust the temperature, turning everything on warm in spite of the external thermometer reading more than eighty degrees and the vehicle had rested in the sun. Aaron looked at him, questioning, and Spencer answered, “You’re chilling.” 

He was right, of course, but Aaron hadn’t expected him to notice and surely hadn’t expected him to care. He bit the tip of his tongue on his reflexive answer, the, “ _ I’m fine, _ ” that threatened to emerge, and instead he granted a quiet, “Thanks,” because he was chilling. Spencer backed out of the parking lot of the station. Aaron kept his gaze forward on the road ahead, prepared to hold on for dear life (and he didn’t know  _ why _ he was prepared to do this, except that he liked to be in control and riding in a car with someone else meant he surrendered that), but Spencer drove slowly and carefully.  _ I have to apologize to him. _ He cleared his throat, and the more he did it, the more it burned. “I owe you an apology.”

Spencer blinked. “You do?” 

“I said something out of line to the detective and one of his officers about you.” 

“What’s that?” 

Sweat beaded on Aaron’s forehead from the fever. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “The officer called you a slur, and Detective Farraday said you were weird. I told them you weren’t weird. You’re autistic.”

Spencer pursed his lips. “I think I’m probably both.” 

Aaron narrowed his eyes, taken aback by Spencer’s blase response; he had expected some form of disapproval, even if mild, from Spencer. “You’re not angry?” he asked, uncertain what to make of it. 

“Well, no. Why would I be? It’s the truth.” 

“You don’t usually tell people.”

Spencer shrugged. “Usually, nobody asks.” He switched lanes, taking a different route to the hotel than the one Aaron would’ve taken—it was a more suburban area, more houses and fences and families, instead of the overwhelming large roads cutting through the center of the city. “But I guess most people think it’s inappropriate to ask.” He glanced sideways at Aaron at a stop sign, the first and only time he had taken his eyes off the road since they left the police station. “Thank you for standing up for me. No one has ever done that before. Usually because I ask them not to, but still.” 

It hurt something inside of Aaron to know Spencer had experienced so much hurt in his life that he had become desensitized to it, that the name calling and the bullying meant nothing to him. “You’re welcome.” He looked at Spencer, though Spencer didn’t look back at him, too focused on the road ahead. Aaron placed one hand on Spencer’s knee. At the next four-way stop, Spencer put his hand over Aaron’s and gave it a gentle squeeze. He didn’t linger; he liked both hands on the steering wheel, Aaron deduced. 

He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what; his mouth didn’t want to move and his tongue felt fat between his lips. He hadn’t finished his apology yet; he had intended on making it much longer. But if Spencer wasn’t upset, he wasn’t sure what else he could say on the matter. “JJ thinks he’s a psychosocial sadist,” Aaron decided to say. “What’s your take on that?” 

“It’s possible.” Spencer had chosen all back roads, but in the distance, Aaron spotted the hotel. He knew where he was going, and he also knew how to avoid traffic. Aaron made a note to have him drive more often. “But psychosocial sadists and other manipulators are usually nonviolent, at least physically. It’d be a huge escalation for one to start killing to instill fear. There are other methods one could’ve taken first—say, animal blood, or even food coloring properly diluted.”

“What are you saying?”

Spencer frowned. “This might have been his first kill, but if he’s a psychosocial sadist, he’s a serial terrorizer with the potential to escalate dangerously and quickly, and none of our leads are panning out, exactly.” 

“There’s the artist angle.”

“Those types of brushes are really common, and anyone who studied rudimentary art, even in high school, could have that type of background knowledge necessary to imitate stroke style.” Spencer’s fingers drummed on the steering wheel, fidgeting in his own way. “I don’t know what I think,” he finally admitted. “I don’t understand how I fit into his MO.” 

Aaron paused. “Are you afraid?”

He considered for a moment, his lower lip pinched between his teeth. He thought about it, but then, he said, “No. Not really.” Quieter, he added, “I know I’m safe when I’m with you.” The words stung something inside of Aaron. “Are you afraid?”

_ With every fiber of my being. _ Aaron closed his eyes. Spencer wouldn’t see him with his eyes on the road, not darting away. “No.” He knew it was a lie. Some part of him suspected Spencer did, too, but Spencer didn’t call him out, and Aaron didn’t elaborate. 

Spencer parked in front of the hotel, and they climbed out together. He adjusted his glasses as they entered the building, and he offered Aaron the keys to the Suburban. Aaron took them and placed them back in his pocket. “Your pickpocketing is getting good.” 

“Thanks.”

The steep, narrow, dimly lit staircase awaited them. Aaron stumbled halfway up the steps. The world spun around him, and he grappled with the handrail to catch himself. Spencer caught him by the elbow, steadying him; he opened his mouth, and Aaron saw the question before it came from his lips and answered hastily, “I’m fine.” Spencer didn’t let go of his arm, unconvinced. The concern didn’t waver from his expression. The pit of Aaron’s stomach flipped; he  _ hated _ having someone fuss over him, and he could see that very soon, Spencer was going to be doing just that. 

He slid the key through the door, and Aaron strode inside, trying to escape Spencer’s concern before it became overbearing. Spencer deadbolted the door behind them. Aaron checked the window locks; they hadn’t been changed since he had locked them this morning. His body pulsed with pain. He slid his arms from his jacket and hung it up. The brushing of fabric against his body sent a grimace upon his face. His tie choked him. 

He turned, and Spencer stood mere inches away. Aaron’s eyes fluttered up to his. Spencer took his tie, loosened it, slipped it from over his head. Behind the fog, everything seemed less clear. “Sit down,” Spencer instructed, and Aaron obeyed, his heavy eyes falling forward. 

Kneeling at his feet, Spencer took one of his shoes by the ankle and slid it off. “Spencer,” Aaron said, “please.” Spencer didn’t listen. He removed the other shoe and his socks, and then he stood to sit beside Aaron on the bed. He reached for the top button of Aaron’s shirt. “That’s enough.” Aaron spoke more sharply this time. “I’m not an invalid.” He could take off his own clothes, albeit much more slowly than Spencer could as his fingers fumbled through the groggy haze. 

Spencer’s eyes softened like melted caramel. “Let me help you.” Aaron’s heavy eyes found it difficult to remain open, and Spencer accepted his long blink as an affirmation of some sort. His spidery fingers unclasped the buttons one by one, spreading open the long-sleeved shirt. He guided Aaron’s arms out of the sleeves and folded it neatly, placing it on top of his suitcase.  _ Don’t, _ Aaron wanted to dissuade, but his head was heavy, so he only managed a grunt in protest as Spencer went for his belt. 

Spencer paid him no heed and removed his belt and his trousers, leaving him in his white T-shirt and his boxers, and then he drew back the covers and half-pushed Aaron into the bed, tucking him in.  _ I’ll be embarrassed later. _ Right now, the covers pierced all of the nerves on the surface of his sensitive skin. Without his layers, an involuntary quiver wracked his body. Spencer moved about above the bed; Aaron listened to him unzip things and bring them to his bedside. Spencer placed a clip on one index finger, a pulse oximeter. He swiped a temporal thermometer across his forehead, ending behind his ear. It beeped. “One oh three five,” Spencer said before Aaron could ask, if Aaron even had the energy to do so. He put the thermometer away. 

Then, Spencer’s hand, his gentle hand, brushed the sweat from Aaron’s brow. He petted Aaron’s hair. His fingers carded through it. When he pulled away, Aaron missed his touch. A blood pressure cuff wrapped around his arm, and Spencer manually squeezed the bulb to tighten it, pressing the cold bell of a stethoscope against the underside of the cuff. In a few moments, the cuff loosened, and Spencer tore the velcro from him and put his things away. Aaron listened to his footfalls, the things zipping back up as he restored the proper order. “Will you take some Tylenol?” Spencer asked. Aaron shook his head. In the background, water ran. Spencer used the corner of a cold washcloth to blot the sweat from his face. He folded it and laid it across Aaron’s forehead. “Try to get some sleep.” He caressed Aaron’s cheek with the back of his hand. Leaning down, he pecked Aaron on the lips, an exchange far more chaste than any of the others they had shared before this. 

Spencer walked away. Aaron listened closely, but he couldn’t hear the sound of Spencer’s feet anymore.  _ Where did he go? _ The door hadn’t opened. He would’ve heard it. He held his breath to listen for any indication of Spencer’s whereabouts, but he couldn’t make out anything. His ears weren’t what they once were. His heart pounded, skipping a beat.  _ Where did he go? _ “Spencer,” he rasped. His throat felt more ragged now, or perhaps the enormity of his pain was hitting him now that he took the opportunity to feel it all.

“I’m just changing clothes.” Spencer returned to his side. “I’m right here.” He slid underneath the covers, wearing a cotton T-shirt and sweatpants. The bed shivered with Aaron’s chills. Spencer put an arm around his chest, resting his chin on Aaron’s shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want any Tylenol?”

“I’m sure.” His voice was a thick croak. 

“Okay.” Spencer didn’t press him, and Aaron was grateful. He quivered on the mattress. This would be embarrassing soon—he kept telling himself that, that he shouldn’t cave like this, that no one could see him like this… But Spencer was so close, and he smelled like his cinnamon antiperspirant, and Aaron relished in the nearness. He fumbled one hand up to his chest, holding Spencer’s arm there so he wouldn’t leave. Spencer didn’t move. His breath wafted across Aaron’s face, a reminder that he was there, he was alive. Aaron counted every exhale Spencer blew across his face. By the sixth one, he fell into a fitful sleep. 

Fever dreams haunted him. 

He was in the hotel room. He opened the bathroom door and walked into his house. “Hey.” Haley greeted him with a smile. He leaned in to kiss her. When he pulled away, blood poured from her eyes and her mouth. He stumbled back. “What’s the matter, honey?” Her hair discolored and fell out in clumps. Her teeth rattled, black and decomposed, from her mouth. “Don’t you like what you see?” 

Behind him, a gun cocked. He whirled around to face Foyet. “I like it, baby.” The grotesque grin marred Foyet’s face. “Why don’t you tell him you like it, Agent Hotchner?”

_ Him. _ Aaron turned again. Spencer was bound to an old wooden chair, stains across his maroon sweater vest, greasy hair hanging in his face and eyes clouded with pain. He shivered like pixels—this was how Aaron had seen Spencer on the computer screen when Hankel had taken him. “Aaron, please.” His voice emerged in a whimper. “Don’t let him hurt me. I don’t want to die.” Foyet pulled a white fabric mask over his face and donned Spencer’s glasses. “Please don’t let him hurt me, please—”

Aaron’s feet were rooted to the floor. 

Three gunshots followed, and suddenly Foyet dragged him by the collar of his shirt. Aaron swung a closed fist at his face. They landed on the stairs and tumbled down them. He ripped fabric mask from his face and shoved it into his mouth, and then he pressed one hand to Foyet’s throat and used the other to pummel him again and again and again—

Firm hands grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Hotch! Wake up!” Aaron gasped and thrashed on the bed. “Hey, hey, calm down. You were having a nightmare.” He opened his eyes. The light stung them. He recoiled, his face balling up against the brightness. Tinnitus rang in his ears. 

The tinnitus overwhelmed everything else. “Spencer—” His own voice echoed in his head. “Spencer—”

“I’m right here.” Spencer squeezed his hand. He placed a cool washcloth across Aaron’s eyes. “Your fever is going up. You need to take some Tylenol.” Aaron’s face turned. “The fever is making you dream. If it doesn’t go down soon, I’m going to take you to the ER. Will you please take some if I bring it to you?” 

He was covered in sweat—he realized the sensation—and his throat  _ throbbed _ whenever he tried to make a sound. It was swollen and tight. He bobbed his head in return to Spencer. Planting his hands on the mattress, he pushed himself up, keeping his eyes closed, but even without seeing anything, he felt the world spin around him. His stomach flipped. He swallowed the bile in his throat. “You’re dehydrated. You haven’t had anything to drink all day but coffee.” Spencer pressed the neck of a bottle to his lips. Aaron wanted to protest indignantly, but Spencer started to pour it, so to keep from being waterboarded with affection, he swallowed big gulps. The cold temperature soothed his throat, and as the water met his lips, the other pains seemed to alleviate. The nausea faded. Spencer pulled the bottle of water away and placed two pills in the palm of Aaron’s hand.  _ Apparently I’m independent enough to put pills in my own mouth,  _ Aaron wanted to gripe, but so many words would hurt his throat, and he could feel Spencer’s pleading eyes on him. He obediently swallowed the Tylenol. 

Then, Spencer was on top of him again, pushing him back down. “It’s easier to breathe if you lie prone.”

“I can breathe just fine,” Aaron rasped. 

“Your respirations are elevated.” 

“I had a bad dream.” Aaron’s nightmares were anxiety-inducing; of course he was breathing hard. Spencer didn’t relent, tugging on him, and Aaron obeyed like a well-trained dog, rolling onto his stomach. Spencer lay beside him, and Aaron rested his cheek on his chest, right over his heart. 

One hand sank deep into his hair, fingers curling there. The other wiped Aaron’s face again with a fresh washcloth and left it resting there. “Thank you,” Spencer said after a few minutes of silence, “for letting me take care of you.”

“Did I have a choice?” Aaron mumbled. 

“Well, JJ texted me and wanted to know if you’d strangled me yet, so…” Aaron exhaled through his nose, the closest he could get to a laugh right now; it felt good to know that he wasn’t special, that JJ knew Spencer was going to overreact and had predicted this. Spencer’s heart under his ear pulsed evenly. His hands petted Aaron’s large head, massaging his scalp and scratching at his hair, and beneath them, Aaron’s headache melted away—though he knew the Tylenol probably helped on that front, as well. 

The sound of Spencer’s blood pulsing lulled him, but he didn’t allow himself to fall asleep again. When he felt the temptation, he squeezed his arm around Spencer’s body tighter. “You said my name in your dream.” Spencer’s voice rumbled through his chest. “You said my name.” Aaron grunted. He didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s going to be okay, you know? He’s not going to be able to hurt me. And, if JJ’s right and he is a psychosocial sadist, I may be his target, but he doesn’t  _ want _ to hurt me. He just wants to scare me, and he probably wants to scare you, too, and he might hurt other people to reach that end, but I’m safe.” 

Aaron knew what Spencer was saying, in not so many words:  _ You won’t lose me the way you lost her. _ He wished he could trust it. But there were more holes in the profile than there were facts, and they couldn’t bank on any one-time musing holding true when they had no real leads and a ton of unanswered questions. Spencer massaged Aaron’s temple under the heel of his hand. At Aaron’s silence, he continued speaking, apparently understanding Aaron had nothing to say on the matter. “I asked JJ to bring some graham crackers when they head this way. You didn’t eat what Rossi brought for breakfast. You haven’t eaten anything all day. Just that coffee. You tend to neglect yourself. I know that’s the pot calling the kettle black, but…” Spencer kept combing his hands through Aaron’s hair. “Sorry, I’ll stop talking.” 

“No,” Aaron murmured. “Keep going.” He wanted to keep hearing Spencer’s voice. He didn’t want to ever stop hearing Spencer’s voice. As his body became more comfortable under the heaps of covers, he relaxed. 

“Really?” Aaron nodded into his chest. “Oh, okay. Well, do you want me to talk about quantum mechanics?”

“ _ No _ .” He’d just gotten rid of his headache; he didn’t need Spencer to give him another one. 

Spencer chuckled. “Okay. Did you know there’s an eighty percent chance that you infected the people in front of, beside, and behind you on every flight you were on? The people across the aisles from you were notably less susceptible, but even then, there’s a very high possibility that many of the people you interacted with on your flights are going through the same thing you are right now.” Aaron vaguely remembered the woman on the flight to Las Vegas with him, the one who had held his hand and held back tears as the flight landed in Lake Havasu City. She was supposed to be in a wedding. He hoped she made it. “Schools are a hotbed for bacteria. Jack was probably a carrier for several days. Jessica’s kids may get sick, too. A 2006 study found that most schools’ germiest areas are the handrails, keyboards, and water fountains. Gym equipment was also really high on the list, especially balls that never get disinfected, and the punch-out keypad at lunch that everyone has to use to get their tray. Music rooms often tested positive for group A streptococcus, which causes strep throat, and that’s pretty alarming, because many schools don’t effectively clean their woodwind instruments even when students have to share mouthpieces, like when they’re learning to play the recorder.” 

Aaron relaxed as Spencer rambled on. “It’s funny, actually, that you’re incredibly unlikely to get sick from kissing someone. The viruses associated with the common cold are transmitted almost solely through mucous lining the respiratory tracts. You’re more likely to get it from holding hands. Or doing what we’re doing right now, I guess. But I don’t mind. I was probably already exposed yesterday.”

_ I don’t mind. _ It struck Aaron as very odd, this phrase coming from Spencer. How couldn’t he mind? He hadn’t shaken hands since Aaron had met him out of avoidance of getting sick (and to his credit, Aaron had only seen Spencer ill one time: when he inadvertently exposed himself to anthrax). Yet here he was, lying here underneath Aaron’s head with his spidery hands curling through his hair, petting him like a docile dog and reassuring him, talking to him, explaining things, and letting none of Aaron’s illness bother him. 

Spencer began to speak again, and Aaron listened until he drifted off to sleep a second time, this time with no dreams to haunt him for it. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3

“It is in your self-interest to find a way to be very tender.” -Jenny Holzer

…

Spencer drowsed in and out of sleep underneath the heavy, hot weight of Aaron’s body draped across him on the bed. He didn’t sleep well on his back, but with Aaron’s head on his chest and arm across his tummy, he couldn’t roll over, nor did he particularly want to; he was exhausted, yes, but he also relished in being this close to Aaron, in feeling the warmth from his breath and his body. He bowed his head forward and kissed the top of his head. He petted Aaron’s hair the way he would stroke Cheryl’s cat, from front to back, and also like Cheryl’s cat, Aaron nuzzled into his hand on occasion. 

His phone beeped. The BAU group chat had been singing to him for awhile, but he was ignoring it, enjoying Aaron too much to remind himself of the stark reality outside their door. He wanted to forget the head and the words on the wall and the sound of gunshots reverberating through the room as Aaron held him flat to the bed and covered Spencer’s body with his own—he wanted to forget everything but the safety he had known as he fell asleep in Aaron’s arms, listening to the pulsing of his heart and the rhythm of his lungs. He didn’t want to know about leads or about the profile. He wanted to know about the veins in Aaron’s arms, how they protruded and how he traced his fingers over them to feel the ridges. He would memorize Aaron’s body, all the parts he could see, and would imagine the rest, and he wouldn’t think about evil or homophobia or how in the hell he was going to explain all of this in a letter to his mom. 

_ I’m being foolish, _ Spencer knew. Once this case was finished and they were headed back home, he  _ knew _ Aaron would choose to end this. Aaron had to prioritize Jack, and he had to prioritize the team, and Spencer needed to take a step back before he got his heart broken, but like this, it was hard not to feel the tenderest of affections crawling to the surface inside of him. 

A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. Spencer blinked in surprise. “Umf…” He lifted up Aaron’s heavy arm and wiggled out from under him. Then, like the night before, he replaced his body with a pillow.  _ Don’t be suspicious. _ He tucked Aaron into bed, careful to make it look undisturbed, and then he pulled back the blankets on the other bed so it appeared Spencer had just climbed out—on the off chance that someone noticed, of course. The knock happened again. “Coming.” He adjusted his glasses and opened the door to the hotel room where JJ waited with a small, nervous smile and a bag in her hands. “Hey.”

He stepped out of the room into the hallway so their words wouldn’t disturb Aaron’s rest. “Hey,” she answered. She tried to peer through the crack in the door, but Spencer pulled it closed before she could get a look; he didn’t think Aaron would want anyone to see him like that. “How is he?” she asked, brow furrowed with concern. 

“His fever was pretty high, but I gave him some Tylenol, and he’s resting now.” Spencer glanced back at the door. “Jessica called yesterday and said Jack was sick. I guess it caught up with him.” Spencer loathed to think of how many people Aaron had infected on those flights he had boarded and in the cars he had rented—he doubted they got disinfected thoroughly before they were rented out to another customer. “Oh—shit. Jessica is expecting him back home today.” 

JJ raised her eyebrows. “He needs to call her. She’s not going to be very happy if he’s not answering his phone.” Spencer nodded. He knew that. She held the bag out to him. “Here. I got the teddy grahams you asked for.” She tilted her head as she looked up at him, a wrinkle between her brows. “You’re looking flushed, too, Spence.” JJ felt his face with the back of her hand. “You’re awfully warm.”

“I already took some Tylenol.” Spencer wasn’t feeling well—his throat ached in a vague sort of way. He knew he would be more ill by tomorrow, and he hoped Aaron felt better by then, though if he didn’t, Spencer would find a way to care for both of them. “I’m alright,” he reassured JJ, whose concern didn’t fade.

“Maybe I should stay and take care of you.” 

“You’ll just get sick, too. We’re already two down. We need leads in this case if we don’t want Strauss trying to bring us home.” Spencer could rationalize it, but his heart skipped a beat at the thought of JJ trying to care for him. He stood before her in a T-shirt and already feared she would spy the shadow of the hickey at the very base of his neck, not quite visible enough to draw attention but close enough to the surface to give Spencer anxiety. He had already tried to think of how he could explain it if someone did notice, but he didn’t have any answers yet; no one would buy,  _ I fell in the shower and landed on my neck and gave myself a bruise in the shape of a mouth.  _

Hell, it’d be his luck that the team would overreact enough to try to pull dental records off of his skin. 

JJ touched his face again. “Okay,” she agreed reluctantly. “How are you holding up?”

He didn’t understand her question. “I’m fine.” 

“I mean, about all of this.” She gestured vaguely to the hotel room door barred by yellow tape. The sight sent shivers down Spencer’s spine. “You know we’re here for you, if you want to talk. Shuttering yourself up with Hotch isn’t going to help anything, especially while he’s sick. He loves you as much as we do, but he isn’t exactly the best sounding board.” 

JJ sounded like she spoke from experience—hell, she probably  _ did _ speak from experience. Spencer had no doubt the conversations Aaron and JJ had shared, secret only between the two of them, while Emily was away. “Maybe he’s a better sounding board than you think he is,” Spencer said delicately. JJ arched an eyebrow, as if to ask,  _ Really? _ and Spencer caved. “I keep bouncing back and forth between trying to pretend it happened to someone else and trying to forget it happened at all.” A soft look followed from JJ’s eyes. “I’m fine,” Spencer insisted. “Not even in my top five worst days on the job.” 

She nodded. He hadn’t convinced her. “This is an awful thing to happen when you’ve just come out. I know—I know this is horrible, Spence, but I hope you know the world isn’t like this. There are a whole lot of people out there waiting to love you just like you are.” 

Spencer inclined his eyebrows once, grimacing. “The world has always been like this to me. It’s nothing new.” He could count the number of times he’d been called every slur. Faggot and its varieties—One thousand two hundred and thirteen. Queer—nine hundred seventy-one. Sissy—five hundred eighty-two. Fairy—two hundred and three. Nancy—one hundred seventy-five. Nellie—eighty-four. Sodomite—thirty-two. Bullies had always come up with creative ways to insult him, and they had known him long before he had known himself in this regard. “I’m safe with Hotch. He’s not going to let anything happen to me. I’m fine.”

The sorrow didn’t leave JJ’s face. “Right.” He took the bag from her. “I should get back. The Grant lead isn’t going anywhere, but we’re still following up on it. Enjoy your teddy grahams, okay? And don’t let Hotch come back out until he’s healthy. You know how he is.”

“I’ve got him tied to the bed with a blood pressure cuff. He’s not going anywhere,” Spencer teased. JJ chuckled, shaking her head at his antics. “Thank you. Call me if you need anything.” He had the ringer loud on his phone so it would rouse him if the team required his assistance. He would rest while he didn’t feel well, but he could still help the team if they needed it. 

“I will.”

“And wash your hands before you touch anything else. You’re going to be all grubby from interacting with me.”

“I will. I’m not five, you know.” 

“You’d be astonished how many grown adults don’t practice appropriate hand hygiene. Worldwide, only an estimated twenty percent of people wash their hands after toileting. In the US, about sixty percent report washing their hands every time they toilet at home, but the remaining forty percent say they only do it sometimes or rarely. Only five percent of US bathroom users wash their hands effectively after leaving the restroom, which is washing hands for a minimum of fifteen seconds with soap and warm water. Fifty percent of men don’t use soap when washing their hands, and fifteen percent don’t wash at all. So, really, not washing your hands is a surprisingly and sadly grownup thing to do.” 

JJ blinked. “I’m glad you’re still feeling good enough to lecture me… And reminding me that men are disgusting and I should never shake hands with one.” Spencer ducked his head in embarrassment. “I’ll text you, okay? Get some rest.” 

He waved farewell to her, and she headed back down the stairwell. Once she was out of sight, Spencer turned to let himself back into the room, but the doorknob refused to turn—it had locked automatically when he had closed the door behind him. He reached into the pocket of his sweatpants. The effort was futile; he had no memory of taking the swipe key out of his jeans and putting it into these pants, and if he didn’t remember it, it hadn’t happened.  _ Great. _ He licked his lips and knocked on the door.  _ He’s asleep and hard of hearing. I’m going to be out here for awhile. _ He didn’t have his phone, either, lest he would’ve called Aaron’s cell in the hopes the ringer would wake him up. 

Turning his back to the door, Spencer sank down, tilting his head against the wood to look at the ceiling. He opened one bag of teddy grahams and munched on them absentmindedly. His stomach hurt—from the anxiety and stimulus, he thought, and also from exhaustion. His eyes were heavy. A shiver passed through him. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, in and out, in and out, trying to relax the tight muscles in his back. 

He dozed off there, his head rocking back and forth. Each time he relaxed enough for the muscles in his neck to give way, his head would droop forward and wake him up, and he would blink a few times and think,  _ He can’t sleep for much longer, _ and would repeat it again. He glanced at his watch once, his eyes bleary with tiredness. 

The hand had moved three quarters of the way around the clock face before his name stirred him from his reverie. “Spencer?” He roused from the sleep-like state which had sucked him in. Batting his eyelashes, he looked around, at first uncertain of his surroundings and the source of his name. “Spencer?”  _ Aaron. _ Collecting the bag of things, Spencer climbed to his feet. “Spencer! Spencer!” 

He knocked on the door once, twice. “I’m out here!” he called through. 

“Spencer?” The door opened. Aaron stared him down. “What the hell are you doing out here? What happened?”

Spencer shuffled back into the room, sliding under Aaron’s arm like a gymnast. Aaron closed the door behind him and locked every added security lock. “I got shut out, if you didn’t infer that from, uh, me knocking on the door asking to be let in.” Aaron’s glossy eyes did not show any appreciation for his wit. “JJ brought teddy grahams. You need to eat something.” Spencer took the key from the pocket of his jeans and put it in his sweatpants. 

“Why didn’t you go down to the front desk and ask for another key?” Spencer’s mouth formed an O of surprise; he hadn’t even considered it. “How long were you out there? Anything could’ve happened to you.”

_ Anything could’ve happened to you. _ It was Aaron saying in not so many words that he was afraid—Spencer knew he was afraid, though Aaron would never admit it. Spencer was afraid, too, but not as much as he should’ve been. “I was fine,” Spencer reassured. “I was just eating teddy grahams. That’s all.” He held out the open bag to Aaron, asking him to  _ please _ take some with his eyes, and Aaron accepted the bag. The wrinkle didn’t fade from above his brow. “How are you feeling?” Spencer asked. 

“I’m fine.”

“You know, it’d be a lot easier if you’d just be honest instead of being all stoic in your martyrdom.” Spencer sat beside him on the bed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, and then he stretched out on the mattress, rolling onto his tummy. Aaron didn’t answer, but he took the blankets by their hem and drew them up over Spencer’s shoulders. Bleary eyes found the blurry form of Aaron hovering over the bed and watched him lift teddy grahams to his mouth one by one. Spencer watched him until he could hold his eyes open no more. 

He heard the sound of the bag wrinkling up, being folded closed, and the bed shifted. Aaron settled beside him. His gaze caused the hair on the back of Spencer’s neck to stand up. “How are you feeling?” Aaron asked him in return. 

Under the covers, a large hand rubbed at Spencer’s back. He tensed at the first touch, but Aaron stopped until Spencer said, “Don’t stop.” His long fingers curled on top of Spencer’s shirt, drawing it upward, and then it slipped underneath, pressing directly to the flat of his back. The palm of his hand was warm. With calloused fingers, bitten fingernails, he drew circles on Spencer’s back. His fingers dipped between Spencer’s ribs and his shoulder blades and followed the ridges of his spine. “I’m just sleepy,” Spencer answered him, quietly, slowly, as he felt Aaron’s touch relaxing him. 

Aaron rested beside him. His breath warmed Spencer’s face. “When are you planning on telling me that you’re sick, too?”

Spencer smiled, raising his eyebrows. “When you’re feeling better, or when I can’t hide it anymore. Whichever comes first.” He opened one eye to peek at Aaron, his face on the pillow just inches away. Spencer caressed Aaron’s cheek with one hand. “I’m fine,” he promised Aaron, and he meant it; it was not a platitude. “I already took some Tylenol, and I drank a lot of water. I ate this morning. I’m going to be fine.” Unlike Aaron, Spencer was not a glutton for punishment; he did not like to suffer for mere suffering’s sake. He much preferred to manage his fever now than suffer the feverish nightmares Aaron had undergone. 

The dull fingernails kept scraping Spencer’s back, rolling in circles to bring him some comfort. Aaron hooked one leg in Spencer’s, his arm strewn over Spencer’s back as if to hold him in place to keep him from escaping again. “I don’t want to wake up without you again.” It was a raw and vulnerable honesty for Aaron to say this right now, and Spencer knew his illness drove his words and without it, he never would’ve bared his heart so readily.  _ Does he mean right now? _ Spencer wondered.  _ Or does he mean ever again? _ He wanted to ask, but he didn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to ask such a loaded question of Aaron right now, when neither of them were well. 

Spencer instead answered his honest vulnerability with an oath: “You won’t.” He meant it. He wouldn’t slip away from Aaron again, or if he had to use the bathroom, he wouldn’t fear waking him and would tuck himself back in bed beside him. Aaron was afraid of losing Spencer in his sleep—Spencer was afraid of anything lurking around the corner, just outside the window, behind the shower curtain, anywhere. No one would try to touch him with Aaron’s arms around him. Aaron guarded him, a possessive dog over a bone, and Spencer rested in his grasp. They both felt safer this way. Aaron’s breath whistled, and Spencer listened to it as he drifted off to sleep. 

Hours passed, morning stretching into afternoon stretching into evening, until a cell phone ringing pierced Spencer’s ears. He blinked a few times, squinting blearily up at Aaron, who fumbled onto the nightstand for his phone. “Sorry,” he rumbled to Spencer, his voice rough, hoarse. He petted Spencer’s hair, and Spencer settled his cheek back onto Aaron’s chest, listening to the rumble of his voice and the sound of his heart and lungs as he answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Aaron, where the hell are you? It’s seven-thirty at night! You said you would be home today!”  _ Oh, shoot. _ Spencer’s gut pierced with sympathy at the sound of Jessica’s irate tone, both for Aaron and for Jessica—the former whose life had taken a grotesque, devastating turn in the last twenty-four hours and the latter who remained completely ignorant and had spent the day worrying and wondering when Aaron would come home. “What’s going on? You need to be straight with me. You’ve been in, like, five different states in three days. What the hell kind of case are you working on? There’s no way some murderer is traveling all this way to drop off bodies.”

Fingers curled into Spencer’s locks and smoothed them around. Aaron cleared his throat, trying to relieve the sleepiness in his tone, but the hoarseness remained. Spencer shivered; it was time for him to take more Tylenol. “Can anyone hear us?” By  _ anyone, _ of course, Aaron meant Jack or Jessica’s children. 

“No. They’re all asleep.” 

Aaron sighed. “We have reason to believe a violent stalker is pursuing one of my agents. I thought I would be home today, but there was a murder overnight. It’s going to be a few more days.”

“A murder?” Jessica repeated. “Someone on your team?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it’s connected?” Aaron closed his eyes and waited, counting under his breath, and with his silence, Jessica relented, “I guess you won’t tell me that. For the love of god, Aaron…” Jessica’s experience with  _ violent stalkers _ had been her sister’s death, and that was all; Spencer wondered if a few more details would’ve alleviated her fears, or if Aaron’s deliberate vagueness kept her safe. “You don’t sound good. Did you catch Jack’s bug? Thomas and Andrea have it, too.” 

“Yeah. I think I did.”

“How exactly are you going to solve a crime or protect anyone while you’re sick?”

“Dr. Reid and I are staying in. He caught it, too.” 

“Oh, nuts.” Jessica sounded disappointed, but then she quieted like she was deep in thought. After a long stretch of silence, she ventured to ask, “Is he the one who…?” Aaron didn’t answer. Spencer thought perhaps she would accept his silence as a refusal to provide an answer to her question, but instead, she said, “I know you’d say no if he weren’t.” Aaron exhaled a long breath from his chest, drawing his arm tighter around Spencer, pressing deeper into his hair. “Jack’s asleep. I’ll let him know I heard from you when he wakes up.” 

“Thanks, Jess. Tell him I love him.” The call ended. Aaron put his phone aside, and with his hand free, he wrapped his other arm around Spencer, drawing him in nearer. Spencer listened to his heart and lungs,  _ lub dub lub dub lub dub—whoosh, whoosh, _ and he tried to relax as Aaron continued petting his hair, trying to soothe him. “How are you feeling?” Aaron asked. 

Spencer exhaled, “Chilled. You?”

“Same.” 

They had, at least, reached a point where they were being honest with each other, perhaps because they each knew the other felt the same and could not successfully hide much while they were undergoing the same illness. “Sorry I got you sick,” Aaron whispered. 

“It’s fine.” Spencer wouldn’t have been sucking face with him yesterday if he had minded all of the commercial airline germs exhaling from Aaron’s breath and body. He’d taken a risk. He hardly ever got sick, but in exchange for getting to lie here in Aaron’s embrace, he could accept it with ease. He yawned, muffling it by turning his face into Aaron’s chest and allowing his pectoral muscles to absorb it. “I like being here like this… with you. Even if we’re both miserable.” Aaron nodded in agreement. He kept both arms around Spencer, squeezing him. “I need to use the bathroom,” Spencer prompted quietly, and reluctantly, Aaron unwound his arms so Spencer could slip away. He donned his glasses and tiptoed into the bathroom. 

Aaron watched Spencer go as he headed to the bathroom, walking on the balls of his feet without his heels touching the ground—he walked like that when he was the most uncomfortable, Aaron knew, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Spencer was uncomfortable emotionally with their nearness or if it was the physical expression of his illness making a regular gait unmanageable. The door closed behind him. Aaron tilted his head back into the pillows. Everything ached and throbbed in a dull way. He felt nauseated and hungry at the same time, and to combat that, he unrolled the bag of teddy grahams and munched on them one by one. He liked them. Once he had eaten a few, his stomach settled. 

Pushing himself up on the bed, he opened his phone to check the BAU group chat. They had exchanged copious amounts of information, shooting things back and forth and pointing to nothing. They had a list of art students in the area who had studied Francis Bacon—several thousand of them, hundreds with a history of violent crime, none quite fitting the profile they had begun to develop. Prentiss and Morgan had visited Marshall Parish and taken photographs of the graffiti to compare to what was found on the wall and in the apartment where Thompson and his partner had lived; it appeared to be the same, but the graffiti was so old that pulling prints from the stone would be impossible. 

D Rossi:  _ We’re not getting anywhere tonight. We’re exhausted. Let’s head back to the hotel and get a good night’s rest.  _

D Morgan:  _ Friends marathon tonight! _

A Hotchner:  _ Please don’t. The hotel has CRT televisions. Reid has been in agony. He can hear it through the walls. _

D Morgan:  _ You’ve gotta be kidding me. _

D Rossi:  _ Good thing a very wealthy man brought along his laptop to stream any sitcom we like.  _

P Garcia:  _ A man after my own heart. _

A Hotchner:  _ You go home, too, Garcia. Get some rest. _

P Garcia:  _ Will do, sir. _

J Jareau:  _ How’s Spence? _

A Hotchner:  _ He’s not feeling well. _

E Prentiss:  _ Is that because he’s sick or because he annoyed you so much fussing over you that you strangled him to death? The last time I told him I didn’t feel well, he took my blood pressure three times in an hour. _

J Jareau:  _ You were hypertensive, Em, it was warranted.  _

E Prentiss:  _ Says the one who was encouraging him.  _

D Morgan:  _ lol. No one has as many “Reid dragged me to the hospital against my will” stories as I do. I’m glad he’s Hotch’s problem and not mine. _

D Rossi:  _ To be fair, none of the rest of us are quite as reckless in the field as you are. Most of those ER trips were to examine a swollen ankle after you kicked in a door or a bumped head after you took a tumble. Reid’s allowed to be concerned. _

J Jareau:  _ THANK YOU. _

E Prentiss:  _ You can’t say he doesn’t overreact. There’s literally Midol in his first aid kit. What the hell is he ever going to do with Midol? _

D Rossi:  _ I would assume he cares enough to offer you some if you ever forget yours, panini-head. _

D Morgan:  _ lol _

J Jareau:  _ lol _

E Prentiss:  _ Oh, it’s on, tortellini face. _

Aaron put his phone aside. Ordinarily, he would’ve read their antics to keep himself smiling through some of the more gruesome cases, to remind himself that there were worse places to be than with his team who cared about each other and made an effort to show it. But right now, his mind was tired, and he wanted not to consider anyone else but Spencer for the night. He listened to the sink run, and then Spencer crept back out of the bathroom. In the lamplight, his face shone gaunt and pale, dark circles under his eyes. He went to his suitcase and opened it up, pulling out his bottle of Tylenol. He gave two to Aaron, who swallowed them, and he took two himself. Then, he sorted out the medications they’d been given that morning. He didn’t open the bottles—they were both once daily medications, so he would take them in the morning—but he straightened them out and pulled them to the front of his well-organized bag. 

“Spencer,” Aaron summoned, and he patted the bed beside him. Spencer’s eyes sparked with some exhausted eagerness. He crawled back into bed and nestled snugly into Aaron’s arms.  _ He does it so easily. _ Aaron wondered if they would have had more inhibitions if they weren’t so ill. He thought so. But perhaps not.  _ I wouldn’t sleep away from him again.  _ No matter how Aaron felt, he wouldn’t leave Spencer asleep in a bed alone again, no way in hell; he would sleep with one eye open and an arm around Spencer and a clenched fist prepared to sock anyone who lurked out of sight. Aaron buried his face in Spencer’s hair and smelled it. The smell, so sweet, inundated his senses, flushed through him and eased some parts of him. “You need to eat.” He pushed the bag of teddy grahams into Spencer’s hand. 

Spencer obediently nibbled on a teddy graham. There were crumbs on the bed. Aaron wondered if Spencer ordinarily ate in bed—he doubted it. Spencer’s eyes drowsed. Aaron brushed the back of his hand along Spencer’s forehead and cheeks, but being feverish himself, he couldn’t  _ feel _ the difference. He could, however, see it, Spencer’s pale skin and flushed, slapped cheeks and groggy, glossy eyes and the tremors pulsing through their bodies, from one to the other like Newton’s Cradle. “Aaron?” Spencer asked. 

The sound of his name on Spencer’s tongue drew his attention. “Hm?” he grunted in response. 

“Does your throat hurt?” Spencer was croaking like a damn bullfrog—Aaron’s didn’t hurt that badly anymore. It was barely noticeable. The aches and pains and chills bothered him, but the sore throat was merely a blink in the back of his mind, cured if he drank enough water. 

“Not as much now. Why?” 

“I just want to hear your voice.” 

“Oh.” Aaron teased Spencer’s peanut-colored hair with his fingers. “What would you like me to say?” He would say anything to sate Spencer, he supposed. His throat didn’t hurt, and he didn’t want to think about the case; he wanted to think about Spencer’s too-warm body nestled up against his right now, think about that body and nothing else, not what they would do when they got home, nothing,  _ nothing. _

At the touch, Spencer keened a quiet sound. “I was wondering… Gideon told me about the guy you were with before.”  _ How did Gideon know about that? _ Aaron wanted to ask, but he held his tongue, because it wasn’t Spencer’s fault that Gideon tended to stick his nose in places where it didn’t belong. “I didn’t know if you’d want to tell me about him.” His expression must’ve shown something less than forthcoming, for Spencer followed it up with a hasty, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“No, no—it’s fine. I just haven’t thought about him in a really long time.”  _ Why do you want to know about him? _ Aaron wondered if it was better for him to speak or not. “His name was Colby. I don’t remember what he was studying. Music performance, maybe—one of those degrees that everybody wants when they’re eighteen and then they can’t get a job with it. His identical twin brother, Kale, was in my jurisprudence program.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “What kind of parents name their kids Colby and Kale?”

Aaron chuckled. “You’re right, it was an odd set. It got remarked upon a lot.” He continued stroking Spencer’s hair, feeling him relax on top of him. “Colby… he was a little like you, I guess. Really intelligent, but he didn’t have an assertive bone in his entire body. Very sensitive. Very thoughtful. Nobody paid much attention to him because Kale was the one achieving things, going to law school. He lived in Kale’s shadow. Once, he told me I was the only person who’d never gotten them mixed up.” 

Sinking back into these memories now was strange. Aaron had almost blotted them out. They had seemed insignificant once he had rejoined with Haley; sure, he knew he liked men, too, but what did it matter when he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her? He would never have cheated on her, not to save his own life. But he remembered Colby for his sensitive face and the way tears had silently fallen down his cheeks when Aaron told him they were done, that Haley wanted him back and there was no one who could compare to her. It was only a few days after their one year anniversary, and Colby had gotten him his favorite album on vinyl and taken him to his favorite restaurant and then rented a tandem bicycle for them to ride through Rock Creek park, and Aaron had only gotten him lame flowers and a box of chocolates and a dumb T-shirt with a picture of Jesus in rainbows captioned, “Ah, men,” which at twenty he had thought was hilarious but now made him cringe. 

“I bet that meant a lot to him,” Spencer rasped. 

Aaron considered for a moment. “Yeah,” he said, “I think it did.” He kept churning Spencer’s downy soft hair beneath his fingertips. “He was really creative. Used to draw me pictures and write me poetry. He was a pretty big guy—they were identical, and Kale was on the football and basketball teams—but he didn’t like sports. I think he had performance anxiety.” 

“Art, in a lot of ways, is basically just math,” Spencer said. 

Aaron cracked a small smile. “Why am I not surprised you think that?”

“Well, I mean, not poetry—poetry is its own beast. Theatrical arts are more of a science based on brain chemistry, how well people can assume a role to the point where it becomes believable to an audience. But visual art and especially two-dimensional visual art is all geometry on paper. Whether or not they realize it, a talented visual artist usually has some hidden penchant for math, and a mathematician can usually compose art fairly well once he has a medium he enjoys using.” 

“I thought your throat was sore.” Spencer blushed, and Aaron scratched at his scalp. His hair beneath his hands, the feel of his face… Aaron admired these things as he absorbed them through his skin like a frog drinking oxygen from the atmosphere. “Why do you want to know about him?” Aaron had summed up almost everything he could immediately recall about Colby, everything that wasn’t a scene and didn’t have a story attached to it.

Spencer shrugged. “I just realized I don’t know very much about you. I figured that was intentional, that you don’t want us to know very much about you, because intra-team profiling is kind of a bitch. But I thought I’d ask, anyway.”

Spencer was right; it was very deliberate, how much Aaron separated his personal life and his background from his team. He didn’t want anyone prying into his life. It had irritated him just spending some time with Gideon, having Gideon bring up his father and offer him confession, and he didn’t want to have to deal with that when he was regularly on the job. But the rest of his team, including Spencer, did not have the luxury of privacy; Aaron had access to almost everything about them when they joined the BAU, their families, their medical histories, their qualifications, their work histories. It seemed fair for Spencer to ask him questions, especially while they were doing whatever this was. “Is there anything else you want to know?” Aaron asked. He couldn’t answer every question, but he could answer some and would do it to the best of his ability. 

Licking his lips, Spencer rubbed his cheek against Aaron’s cotton shirt. His foot drew stimulating circles on the sheet, and Aaron paid little attention to the slight jostling of the bed it caused; it rocked the bed like a cradle, lulling him. “How’d you get your law degree so fast?” Spencer asked. 

This question took Aaron aback. “How do you know I got my law degree fast?” He had never talked about accelerating through school to anyone except Haley; he had done it only to have faster access to the workforce and quicker complete freedom from home. 

Spencer blinked. “Well, uh… the math.”  _ What does math have to do with this? _ “Your first case as leader of the BAU was in ninety-eight. You were twenty-seven. Before that, you worked in the Seattle field office, you did SWAT for a few months, and you were a prosecutor for several years.” Spencer’s hand drew patterns on the wrinkles of Aaron’s white undershirt. His fingers brushed the scars across Aaron’s chest and abdomen through the thin piece of fabric, eliciting chills running through him. “Most people don’t graduate law school until they’re twenty-five. There’s no way you did all that in two years.” 

_ Maybe he knows more than I wanted him to know. _ Aaron was sure he had probably mentioned all of these things at least once, but he sometimes forgot that Spencer remembered everything, so having it all rattled back off to him was a surprise. “You’re right,” Aaron said. “I doubled up on credit hours in high school. I graduated when I was sixteen.” Unlike Spencer, he hadn’t managed it based on unusual intelligence; rather, he’d done it out of sheer desperation to get away from his home sooner rather than later. “I did the same thing in undergrad.” He’d gotten his diploma in history over the winter after he had turned eighteen, and that spring, he’d enrolled in George Washington University. “And in law school. I did it in five semesters instead of six.” That was all he’d been allowed to do; jurisprudence education had different rules, and the instructors refused to let him skimp out on following them because of his great, hasty ambition. “I was twenty when I got my JD. But unsurprisingly, no one would hire a twenty year old attorney. That was how I wound up in prosecution. The state wouldn’t let me be the last line of defense between petty criminals and decades long prison sentences. So they expected my skills would be flimsy enough to work in prosecution for petty crimes. The district attorney hired me..” 

“But they weren’t so flimsy.” 

“No, they weren’t.” Aaron didn’t know how he had become so good at arguing; maybe it was the release of pent up stress from years of  _ not  _ arguing,  _ not _ talking back, and always imagining everything he would say in return to his father if he were brave enough. “The district attorney I worked for invited me to run to replace him when he decided to retire, so I did. I was uncontested. I realized pretty soon why nobody else wanted the job.” It was a hell of a lot worse than anything Aaron ever would have put in front of a twenty-one year old kid. Only a naive kid would’ve run for office not knowing the ramifications of sitting behind the desk. 

His hand had stilled in Spencer’s hair, and like a cat reminding him to  _ please keep petting, _ Spencer nuzzled into his palm. Aaron blew a soft chuckle at him. “You’re fairly demanding, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told I’m high maintenance, yes.” Spencer yawned. “By Morgan. All the time.” 

Aaron’s brow quirked; he’d only joked about Spencer’s demands, having not meant anything behind his teasing. “What’s his basis for that?”

“I never let him watch TV when we room together. He would like to switch beds on the second night to change things up, but I won’t, because he sweats a lot more than I do and it grosses me out to sleep on the same sheets as somebody who just sweated a bunch on them. He thinks I’m weird because I have a special pillow that I don’t sleep well without and because I prefer my own shampoo and soap over the hotel’s.” 

“Does that bother you?”

Spencer breathed a quiet laugh. “No, of course not. He’s just teasing.” Aaron didn’t like it, didn’t like that anyone would mock Spencer for his many quirks and foibles. “I stopped bringing my pillow, though. I was afraid he was going to steal it and do something to it if I kept bringing it along. Like, fart on it or something.” 

Spencer laughed, so Aaron laughed, too, and seeing Spencer smile relaxed the pain inside of him for a while. His bleary vision streaked behind his eyes. He tilted his head back, relaxing on the pillows as he kept swirling his fingers through Spencer’s curls. “You can room with me from now on.”

His offer was initially met with silence, but then, Spencer’s frown was audible in his voice. “Won’t they think something’s up?”

Aaron shook his head. “Rossi likes to let the TV run all night. Sitcoms. I can never sleep well. I think they’re a better match for one another.” He didn’t know why they had never questioned this arrangement where they all got less sleep than they needed. He had never known Spencer and Morgan had spats in their overnight stays, though he supposed he should’ve guessed from the dark circles Spencer accumulated during their cases that lasted several days and Morgan’s utterances about missed sitcoms. In retrospect, he found it downright inane how they had determined the senior and junior agents would room together without any consideration for the quality of the sleep they received. 

Aaron smelled Spencer’s hair again. “You keep doing that,” Spencer mumbled into his chest, voice growing thicker and slower by the minute. 

“I like the way you smell.”  _ It reminds me that you’re safe. _

“JJ picked out all my products.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah.”

“Why?” 

Spencer shrugged. “The first time she showered at my apartment, she told me I wasn’t taking very good care of my hair or my face.”  _ Why was JJ showering at your apartment? _ Aaron wanted to ask, but he didn’t, not yet anyway. “So she got kinda tipsy one night and dragged me out to the store and bought me everything she thought I needed… I just stuck with those things. I figured she knew better than I did.” 

“And your cologne?” 

“Yeah, that was her, too.” Aaron breathed a chuckle through his nose. He didn’t know why that surprised him. It shouldn’t have; Spencer had always smelled particularly feminine, so it made sense that a woman had had a hand in selecting his products, his soaps and his shampoo and his cologne. Spencer’s sleepy voice pressed on. “She stayed with me while Will was… you know.” Aaron didn’t know, not exactly, not the specifics, but Spencer didn’t have the energy to share, or perhaps he wouldn’t betray JJ’s privacy. “He had her convinced he could get the house. The house and Henry. I told her he was wrong… everything was in her name…” Spencer yawned into Aaron’s chest. “I went with her when she took the house back. He knew there was someone else… He thought it was me.” Aaron’s fingers continued dancing through Spencer’s hair. “They were together before, you know. Emily and JJ. They were together before… when JJ went to her backstop…” 

Aaron’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t know about that.”

“She didn’t tell me. I figured it out. And you already know.” Spencer nuzzled into the palm of Aaron’s large, warm hand. “I like the way you smell,” he said suddenly. “You know, olfaction has neuroanatomy tied to the emotion centers of the brain more than any other sense. When I smell your cologne, it goes straight to my amygdala and tells me to feel safe. It has ever since…” He drifted off.

“I know.” Bleary brown eyes found Aaron’s from below. “Get some sleep, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s heavy eyes fell closed, and he obeyed without question. 


	13. Chapter 13

“Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses.” -James Oppenheim

…

The burned figure before Spencer clutched the red button in his hand, thumb hovering over it. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to glance back—Aaron was behind him, somewhere just behind him. The bomb strapped to Randall Garner’s chest thrummed with life, with death. Spencer held up his hands in surrender. “Tell me why this happened, Mr. Garner. Tell me why this is happening.”

“Ask the question and I’ll be healed.”

“Why aren’t there any leads? Why doesn’t any of this make any sense? I—I don’t understand. I want to know how I can solve this crime.” His dry mouth tingled on the inside. “The victim’s partner—he deserves closure.  _ I  _ deserve closure. I need to know why someone would do this to me, who would do this to me.” 

“The answer is inside you, Sir Percival. I gave your mother the map.” Spencer’s eyelashes fluttered at the familiar words. He backed away. “Can I forgive myself?” His body tensed in the seat, and Spencer turned before he heard the last words. “No. I can’t.”

“ _ Run! _ ” Spencer dove across the floor, covering his head and neck with his hands, and Aaron’s arms lifted him from the floor covered with shattered glass, pulling at him, dragging at him while his rubbery legs churned among the rubble. He looked back at the flames, and they consumed him, spitting him out in a wooden chair.

His shoes scraped at the wooden floor. The stench of rotting fish hearts choked him. “Confess your sins.” Spencer shied away from the barrel of the gun. “Confess your sins, faggot.” The cabin was too bright, too bright; he didn’t know why, but the light overwhelmed him, obscuring Raphael’s face from view. His breath refused to come out of his chest where it ached and burned inside. “Die, fag.” The bullet erupted from the gun, and the flash swallowed him again. 

Cyrus leveled his rifle at Spencer’s face. “Which one of you is the FBI agent?” Spencer’s eyes darted up to look at Emily, but Emily wasn’t there; they were alone. “God will forgive me for what I must do.” The butt of his gun slammed into Spencer’s face and he spiraled backward, backward, falling, the floor caving beneath him until he shivered from head to toe.

He coughed and blood rose to his lips, again and again and again; he couldn’t inhale. His chest throbbed. This pain was the most excruciating he had ever felt. He could hear his own breath bleeding from his lungs, whistling, and he pushed his lips together to try to say the words, “ _ No narcotics, _ ” but instead he made a jumbled sound and someone overhead said his frontal lobe was malfunctioning and he realized,  _ I’m going to die, I really fucked up this time, tell my mom I’m sorry, tell her I love her, _ and the world had never been so cold—

Warm arms scooped him out of the dream. “Spencer, wake up,” Aaron mumbled into his hair. “You’re having a nightmare.” Spencer vibrated from head to toe with the chill. He sucked in a deep breath. His throat throbbed as he did so. Aaron fumbled sleepy, heavy arms around him. “You’re shaking.” The bed jostled. His lower jaw chattered. Aaron’s body felt warm—Spencer pawed clumsily at him, seeking some reprieve in his warmest parts. His palms snaked under Aaron’s T-shirt and pressed to his skin. Aaron flinched. “Jesus Christ, your hands are cold.” He brushed Spencer’s sweaty hair out of his face. “What’s the matter?” 

Words—hard to come by for Spencer, whose lower jaw kept chittering up against his teeth. Everything seemed large and blurry. He buried his face in the crook of Aaron’s neck, gasping for air. Aaron cradled the back of his head and pushed himself up in bed, pulling Spencer on top of him. “It’s okay,” he reassured in his soft, low, sleepy voice. “It’s okay.” His large hands massaged Spencer’s body through his T-shirt. “Do you want me to run you a bath?” Spencer shook his head. “Do you want me to—” Spencer shook his head again, thinking,  _ No, just this, this is good, this is fine, this is what I need, _ and Aaron fell silent and stroked Spencer’s hair and back until his quivers settled into soft trembles. “Talk to me when you can.”

It was so strange to Spencer that Aaron understood, this statement implying what so many people could not grasp—sometimes, the words just  _ wouldn’t come, _ and he needed time to figure things out until he could speak again. Having someone pluck the language from him like teeth did not help, but Aaron was patient and waited for him to speak when he could, not a moment sooner. “I’m okay,” Spencer finally breathed. His eyelashes fluttered against Aaron’s chin. His face pressed into his neck. He kept his eyes closed to keep from fuddling up his senses; he focused on the others one by one. Tactile—Aaron’s skin against his palms, the musculature beneath his fingertips, the thick bands of scar tissue and surgical lines. Auditory—every breath Aaron took, whispering in and out of him, the hum of,  _ Mmm _ , as he nuzzled into Spencer’s hair. Olfactory—Aaron’s cologne and the smell unique to him rising off of his skin where Spencer rested his face. Spencer exhaled long and hard. The pressure, the aching, left his chest. “Was I screaming?” he asked. 

One large hand brushed over his face. “No. Just kicking.” He absently brushed his hands over Spencer’s back. “Is that why you have the sound absorbers in your bedroom?” he asked, and Spencer didn’t know why he was surprised that Aaron had gone to his apartment, had gone to his bedroom to look for him. He shouldn’t have been. 

“Part of the reason.” He licked his dry lips. “I have loud neighbors.” Aaron unwove his arms from around Spencer and pulled away, reaching toward the nightstand, and Spencer pressed firmer into him. “Don’t go—”

“I’m not.” Aaron unscrewed the cap from the water bottle he had retrieved and pushed it into Spencer’s hand. “Drink. You’re sweating.” Spencer obeyed, drinking from the water bottle, the other hand still fixed to Aaron’s chest. “Does that happen often?”

Spencer shook his head, and once he had swallowed, he allowed Aaron to take the bottle away, screwing the cap back onto it. “No, I…” He blinked a few times. “My neighbor, Cheryl, she worries. She heard me once and came to see that I was okay. She thought someone had broken in. It was really embarrassing.”

Aaron’s brow furrowed. “She thought someone had broken in and didn’t call the police?”

Spencer shook his head. “She was a nurse for almost sixty years. She isn’t afraid of anything.” He muffled a yawn into the side of Aaron’s neck. 

“She’s the elderly woman who waters your succulents?” Aaron clarified, and Spencer nodded. “You should call her. She was concerned about you.” Spencer didn’t know why it surprised him, again, that Aaron had talked to Cheryl—after all, Cheryl was the only one with a key to Spencer’s apartment, so he wouldn’t have gotten in without interacting with her unless he borrowed JJ’s key, and Spencer doubted JJ would let anyone, even Aaron, into his apartment without justification. 

A soft sigh followed. “Her birthday is in a few days. I’ll call her, then, if we aren’t back in DC by then… I always spend her birthday with her.” He nuzzled into the palm of Aaron’s hand. “Her kids don’t come around much. They all moved out of state. So we usually do holidays together, when I’m in town.” He didn’t know why he told Aaron all of this now. Nobody knew anything about Cheryl; she was his secret adoptive grandmother. JJ had met her, but Spencer hadn’t elaborated about their relationship, and JJ hadn’t asked. “She turns ninety-one this year.” 

Aaron didn’t seem to mind the fact that he had decided to ramble about his neighbor in spite of the late hour, and he invited Spencer to continue. “How’d you meet her?”

He didn’t want to answer that question. “It’s a long story,” he said, and Aaron understood he meant,  _ I don’t want to talk about it _ , and did not press him again. Spencer breathed through his nose. “I’m sorry I woke you.” 

“I was already awake.” 

“Why?” 

Aaron turned his head, scratching at Spencer’s scalp, but his silence stretched long, and Spencer wanted to reassure him that he didn’t  _ need _ to answer if he didn’t want to—but then, he whispered, “I was watching you sleep.” It was an odd, intimate thing to think of Aaron sitting awake on the bed, watching Spencer’s chest rise and fall and his eyelids twitch as he entered REM. “And thinking.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

“You can’t think about everything. That’s impossible. I can't even think about everything.” Aaron breathed a puffed laugh into his hair, hugging Spencer tighter, and Spencer realized, “Oh,” in a soft voice when it clicked that  _ everything _ didn’t mean everything in the world but rather everything that had happened to them in the past day and a half. Spencer opened his eyes. The dimmest of gray lights illuminated the room. He could only make out Aaron’s outline. “What… What are you thinking?” Spencer asked, not entirely certain he wanted to know, but the curiosity raged within him. 

Aaron licked his lips, grimacing. “Trying to calculate exactly how many teeth Morgan will knock out of my head when he finds out.”  _ When he finds out, _ Spencer realized,  _ when _ , not  _ if. _ Aaron intended on them finding out some way or another. He slipped his hands around Aaron’s body. “No statistics about the best angle to hit somebody in the mouth to maximize the amount of dental damage done?” 

“No.” Spencer could’ve prattled off how to do the most damage to somebody’s mouth, but that wasn’t the point. “You think Morgan will want to hurt you?”

“I’m your direct superior and ten years your senior. He’s going to think I took advantage of you.”  _ But you didn’t, _ Spencer wanted to object,  _ I kissed you first. _ He knew such an objection would not work, because Aaron was right; anyone would look at him in this scenario and see him as a predator. Spencer lifted his head and nuzzled against Aaron’s face for a kiss, feeling the stubbly texture of his jawline. Aaron sank into an open-mouthed kiss with him, soft, so soft, Spencer had never dreamed Aaron would be this soft— “They’re all going to think that,” Aaron breathed into his mouth. 

Spencer shook his head. “JJ won’t. Emily won’t.” JJ would take his side no matter what, and Emily would take JJ’s side. “Garcia will follow them, and Rossi will—he’ll let me say my piece before he starts throwing punches, I think.”  _ I hope. _ Spencer’s eyes flicked downward. Aaron was right; Morgan could be  _ fiercely _ protective of him, and undoubtedly would go in without his head screwed on straight. Power imbalances in relationships triggered him, Spencer knew; it would be hard for him to separate his own experiences from the consensual relationship Spencer and Aaron shared. “What makes you think they’re going to find out?”

One finger ran down Spencer’s side, sending chills through him. “They’ll figure it out,” he said. Then, a little quieter, he added, “Or we’ll tell them.”

Spencer’s brow quirked. “Why would we do something like that?”

“If we get to a point where we think we might want them to know.”  _ Whoa. _ The notion took Spencer’s breath away, how quickly Aaron had gotten there, given that their first encounter was meant to end with a single hickey on Spencer’s neck and nothing else. “Not that we… Not that we’ll reach that point.” Aaron seemed to withdraw it when Spencer didn’t respond. 

Spencer kissed him again. “But it’s an option?” Aaron nodded. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” This job was Aaron’s life. Spencer couldn’t risk it for his own selfish desires. “Morgan’s rage is survivable, but Strauss’s is not.” Spencer could, probably, maybe, with some help, calm Morgan down and explain things to him. He could not do that to Strauss. She terrified him. 

“I can handle Strauss.” 

“You sound fairly confident.”

“I’m not.”

Spencer smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I think we’re being hasty.” He felt Aaron’s eyes on him in the dark. “We’re scared right now, and we’re sick, and we’re vulnerable, and—maybe it’s not the best time to make decisions, until we can do it with clear heads.” Aaron kept on touching him, feeling him up. Spencer touched his face, his hair, and petted it back, feeling the way it worked beneath his touch. “We’re talking about problems we might not even have.” They had enough very real problems right here, right now, in the present. They didn’t need to create more for themselves. 

Aaron shifted, lowering his head so Spencer could play with his hair the way he wanted. “You’re right,” he said, but his voice was softer, sadder.  _ He thinks this is what he really wants. _ Spencer’s stomach flipped at the notion, not in a pleasant way, but in the way it did when terror overwhelmed him. There was no way  _ he _ was what Aaron really wanted. Aaron was just scared right now, scared of losing him, scared of him being hurt, and Spencer  _ knew _ that, but he wondered if Aaron did. “I want how we proceed to be your decision.” 

Spencer curled his fingers into Aaron’s hair. “I don’t want to decide anything when I’m afraid somebody might want to kill me.” Right now, he couldn’t dream of leaving Aaron’s side. But eventually, they would catch the man who did this, and then what? Then Aaron had a son, and he was the leader of the BAU, and Spencer was a nobody. “I don’t want to make a decision you’ll regret.” If they made an executive decision now and Aaron suffered the consequences, Spencer wouldn’t be able to undo it if he regretted it. 

“What about a decision you’ll regret?” 

His brow furrowed. “I don’t think I could regret any decision I made to be with you.” He would feel selfish and weak if he chose his own desires over Aaron’s well being, but socially, he would not regret it. He would not regret giving himself to Aaron in whatever way Aaron would take him. 

“We both seem to be pretty damn preoccupied with protecting each other,” Aaron observed, nuzzling into Spencer’s hand as he scritched at his scalp and through his locks. His heavy arm remained slung over Spencer’s middle. 

“Is it bad to prioritize that?” Spencer asked. They had jobs which required them not to focus on themselves; it translated into their personal lives, each of them more occupied with the other’s safety and happiness than their own. “We’re both not very good at taking care of ourselves. Maybe if we try to take care of each other, things will work out better.” 

Aaron nodded. “You’re right.” Spencer ran his fingernails across Aaron’s head, barely grazing the skin there. “I want to teach you hand-to-hand.”

Spencer blinked. “Now you sound like Morgan.” 

“You tried to defend yourself from an armed killer with a  _ pillow, _ Spencer.” 

“Well, if I’d had a gun, I would’ve used that.”  _ That could’ve ended badly.  _ Spencer already was not the best shot in the world; without his glasses, he loathed to think how it could’ve ended. 

“You won’t always have a gun. You’ll always have your fists.” Aaron had a point; the odds of Spencer being separated from his gun were much higher than the odds that he would be separated from his own hands (and if that happened, Spencer’s priorities would no longer be to fight his way out of the situation, but rather to try to stop the bleeding and maybe make his peace with God—he was a man of science, but when in that type of situation, he usually started to try to hedge his bets and stack the deck like a good gambler did). “You’re not sold,” Aaron observed.

Spencer shrugged. “Gideon spent a long time trying to teach me how to fight. The only time I won was when I bit him.” Aaron’s eyes widened in surprise. Spencer defended, “He told me to do whatever I had to do to get away from him.” 

“I don’t want to get bitten.” 

“In general, or only in the context of fighting?” Spencer asked. 

Aaron raised his eyebrows and chuckled a soft sound. “Only in fighting,” he said. He put his arms around Spencer’s shoulders and clung to him. The heavy weight pressed Spencer into the mattress like a weighted blanket, soothed his soul with its familiarity. “I think it’s something we need to work on. Not just because of this, but in general. Anything can happen in the field.” 

Around his index finger, Spencer twirled Aaron’s hair. It wasn’t long enough to remain wrapped around his digit. “I can talk my way out of most situations. It isn’t hard to figure out what someone wants to hear and say it until help shows up.” Spencer had done it with Hardwick; he’d done it with Maggie Lowe; he’d done it with Cyrus at the Separatarian Sect. Someone had to be already falling off of the ledge for Spencer not to be able to talk them away from it. 

“Someone who wants to hurt you may not be interested in what you have to say.” 

Hands patted downward from Aaron’s head against his neck, his shoulders, which flexed beneath Spencer’s touch. Aaron was always tense—Spencer didn’t think he had unclenched his jaw in the past two years—but now, Spencer rubbed the hard muscles in his shoulders with the heels of his hands. “It would make you feel better if I said yes, wouldn’t it?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. 

“Yes.” 

His index finger trailed around Aaron’s throat, feeling the pulse point there, counting the beats thrumming beneath his fingertip. Aaron had taught him before, had given him the technique he needed to kill Phillip Dowd; he had never mocked Spencer or embarrassed him about his lack of skill with a firearm, but rather had built him up to help him succeed—and he had  _ trusted _ Spencer in the moment, had  _ trusted  _ him to take the weapon from his leg holster and fire it and  _ not miss _ which for Spencer was a pretty damn big accomplishment. That was the first time someone had trusted Spencer professionally, had seen him as more than a tall kid with too-long hair and big, ugly glasses. Aaron had managed to give Spencer the skill he needed to save them once. He had to trust Aaron to do that again. “I guess, if it matters that much to you.” 

“It does.” Aaron grumbled the words against Spencer’s palm, and he moved his hand upward, never removing it from Spencer’s body but instead feeling his way upward until he caught Spencer’s hand by the wrist and sleepily kissed his fingertips. Spencer smiled. A blush rose to his face, and he was glad for the darkness of the room masking it. No one had ever wanted to touch him like this before; he had never dreamed of allowing it. Aaron’s lips were rough and chapped, not matching their tender touch. Spencer took one hand from Aaron’s hair, eliciting a grunt of complaint. He fumbled onto the nightstand for his chapstick and uncapped it, dabbing it onto Aaron’s lips. His face turned in displeasure. “Strawberry?”

“JJ bought it for me.” 

Aaron breathed a quiet laugh. “How many things did she pick out for you?” he asked. 

“In the way of hygiene? Almost all of them.” Spencer kept petting Aaron’s hair. “Until very recently, she was the only person who ever got close enough to me to care how I smelled, so I figured it would be nice to make sure I smelled like something she liked.” His brow furrowed. “I think she matched all of my products to her dad’s, though, and I’m not sure how I feel about that yet.” 

Aaron grinned. “Well, for what it’s worth, I like the way you smell.” Spencer ducked his head. Aaron rearranged the covers around them. “Get some sleep.” 

Spencer shivered. He felt cold in a way, despite lingering under the covers.  _ I should take some more Tylenol. _ He didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the peace and the calmness of this moment. “Will you hold me?” he asked, feeling quite juvenile and small as he asked it, but Aaron collected Spencer into his strong arms and pressed Spencer’s head to his chest, and Spencer listened to the blood and the air pulse beneath his ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Any time,” Aaron answered, and he scratched at Spencer’s scalp, eliciting a delighted purr in response. 

Blinking a few times, Spencer allowed his heavy eyes to settle. “You should sleep, too.” Aaron hummed a question in response, barely an acknowledgment. “Instead of watching me sleep and thinking about everything. You can sleep, too… Sleep is the panacea for all ills.” 

“I will.” Spencer wasn’t sure if Aaron told the truth or not, but his head had the dull throb of needing more sleep, so he didn’t argue, and instead he allowed the rumbling inside of Aaron’s body to carry him away from the world and back into the realm of dreams, which greeted him just as fitfully as he had left it. He sweated and tossed and turned, and more than once Aaron scooped him out of a nightmare. 

Around dawn, Spencer rolled over. He pushed Aaron’s arm off of him. He was sweaty and fatigued and shivering and chilling and sore and aching all over, and the nightmares refused to leave him alone. Aaron grabbed him by the band of his sweatpants. “Where are you going?” he mumbled into the pillow. The sound hurt Spencer’s heart; he was  _ exhausted. _ There was no way he was getting any rest as long as Spencer kept flipping over in the bed. 

Spencer rubbed his eyes with his fists. “You’re not going to get any sleep while I’m like this.” He crossed his arms. Another shiver stroked through him. “I’m getting in the other bed.”

“No, you’re not.” Aaron sat up again. Darkness encircled the space below his eyes. “Stay.” He put his arm around Spencer’s waist again, holding him in place. Spencer’s body tightened. “You need to take some more Tylenol.” Aaron’s morning voice was rough, addled by sleep; Spencer could’ve sunk into those lowest tones and rested there like the black keys between the white teeth of a piano. Spencer sat on the bed, quivering, as Aaron got up and gave him the bottle of Tylenol and the opened bottle of water. Spencer opened the bottle and poured the pills into his hand, taking two, and then he drank eagerly. Itchiness plagued him; sweat leaked from him. “What can I do?” Aaron asked, and Spencer didn’t have an answer. 

Aaron pulled the covers down and shifted closer to Spencer, placing an arm around his waist. The hair on the back of Spencer’s neck stood up. He turned his head to kiss Aaron gently. The gray dawn light filtered through the window from behind the curtains. Aaron’s lips enveloped his, and he drew Spencer back against his chest, wrapping his arms around his middle and anchoring him in place. As their lips separated, wet lips pressed tender kisses along his jawline to his neck. Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips fluttered open, exhaling a trembling sigh.

Supple kisses slid down Spencer’s neck, careful to do nothing to leave a mark, nothing but the streak of saliva remaining in his wake. Ordinarily, the notion of saliva on his neck would’ve disgusted Spencer, but now, he gave a new variety of tremor as Aaron pulled open the neck of his T-shirt and found a stretch of ivory skin on his shoulder covered by fabric, and here, he sank in his teeth. From between his parted lips, Spencer moaned, a quiet thing, breathy, and his hands balled up in the sheets. Aaron’s teeth stung his skin. He sucked hard. The pain, like a bee sting, came and went, and then the kisses peppered over the pale flesh darkening into a bruise. Aaron had marked him, this one much darker than the first and safely out of sight; Aaron tucked the sleeve of his T-shirt back over it and smoothed it down. Unless Spencer took off his shirt, no one would see it.  _ If anyone sees me shirtless, I hope it’s him. _

Spencer rolled over in Aaron’s arms and faced him, kneeling on the mattress between his legs.  _ What am I doing? _ The notion crossed his mind, and he didn’t have an answer to that question, and it both terrified and thrilled him to realize while his mindless mouth struck Aaron’s, open and real and hot. Aaron’s large hands framed his hips, his waist, his ribcage, and beneath his touch, Spencer felt small and  _ powerful, _ so powerful that he sat atop Aaron, Aaron who was everything allowing Spencer to take control. One of Spencer’s hands pressed to Aaron’s chest. The other tangled in his hair, tilting his head back. Spencer’s mouth had no sense of direction. Aaron’s burrowed into his from below. His tongue sought reprieve in Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer accepted the intruder, suckling on it and marveling at this oddness. Heat gathered in the pit of Spencer’s stomach. 

“Mmm—” Spencer moaned the note into Aaron’s mouth. He fisted the front of Aaron’s shirt and rolled over, onto his back, trying to usher Aaron on top of him, though it was difficult because Aaron was so strong and heavy and Spencer’s noodle arms sought any leverage they could get on him. He wanted to be underneath Aaron, wanted to feel his body on top of him—

At Spencer’s urging, Aaron arranged himself on top of Spencer, careful to brace his weight on his arms. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, and Spencer remembered he’d done this the last time, too, had asked this question. 

“No—” Spencer’s heart thrummed through the top of his chest. Aaron wouldn’t hurt him; he could never do such a thing, could never bring harm to Spencer, could not even place too much weight on his body on this mattress for fear of crushing him. “I’m fine.” He licked his lips, leaning forward to kiss him again. 

Aaron’s kiss was tender and sweet and slow, and he broke it, leaving Spencer breathless. “I don’t think this is helping you get back to sleep.” 

“I know what could.” 

He wore a dark look, and he shook his head. “I’m not going to take that from you,” he said again, and he made to slide his body off of Spencer’s, but Spencer held tight to the front of his shirt. “Aren’t you concerned I’m going to suffocate you?” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “No. If I start turning blue, though, please make sure I’m okay.” He  _ liked _ this, this arrangement of himself under Aaron, their legs tangled up together. Aaron caressed his face, sweeping his hair back out of his eyes, and another sensitive kiss touched his lips. Aaron didn’t kiss him with lust or with hunger; he kissed him in a nurturing way, a comforting way, a reassuring way, and Spencer wondered if these were the things Aaron needed, too, to be reassured that they were safe together, that no one was watching, that their bodies were only their own to be shared and no one could harm them in this moment. 

With that in mind, Spencer settled into another embrace shared between their two mouths, and he kinked one of his ankles in Aaron’s. One hand remained in Aaron’s hair. The other slid down his back, feeling his muscles through his shirt, the way they flexed and heaved. The gray dawn light grew brighter where it filtered past the curtains in the window. Spencer did not wear his glasses, but above him in the holy morning light, Aaron was  _ ethereal.  _ This exquisite man perched atop him, beauty exhaling from him, and Spencer did not need to see clearly to feel the sublimity pealing off of him in waves like thunder. 

With every breath, Spencer’s chest rose to meet Aaron’s. The pressure in his belly increased, but after a few more moments of kissing him and breathing in his breath and nuzzling their faces against one another, Aaron slid from him again, and this time, Spencer did not try to keep him on top, but rather he collected himself in a ball and curled up against Aaron’s body. 

Those heavy arms encircled his body. Spencer fought to ignore the heat in the base of his stomach. Aaron brushed his hair from his temple and kissed it. “I’ve got you,” he whispered.  _ I know. _ Spencer didn’t say this, because again, he knew Aaron was speaking to convince himself more than he spoke to convince Spencer. “You really aren’t afraid that I’ll hurt you?” 

Spencer shook his head, mumbling a quiet, “Uh-uh.” His eyes felt heavy again. “You won’t squash me like a bug… I’m not that small.” He wondered if Aaron had always had this fear, but it seemed awfully invasive to ask him about his romantic and sexual habits with his dead ex-wife, so Spencer decided to leave it to his imagination. He yawned, muffling it in the crook of Aaron’s shoulder. “I guess I am sleepy now.” 

“Good.” Aaron played with his hair. “You need to rest.” 

Spencer nodded. Then, the shrill sound pierced through the walls again. He cringed. His hands sailed up over his ears and retreated under the covers, trying to muffle the whine from the television. Aaron covered Spencer’s hands with his own and drew him close to his chest, and then he called through the wall, “Morgan,  _ turn it off! _ ” 

“It’s not me! It’s Emily!”

“Prentiss!” 

“We’re looking for the remote!” JJ called back. 

“How did you lose the remote if you just turned it on?”

“We didn’t turn it on,” Prentiss griped in return. “It got tossed while we were… _ busy. _ Must’ve landed on the power button.” 

“Oh, god,” Morgan groaned. “I hate all of you.” 

“Why am I not retired yet?” came Rossi’s exhausted voice. “I can’t hear anything, so will you all just please go back to sleep?” Morgan said something back to him, incoherent through the wall, and then they both quieted down. However, the shrill whine from the CRT television continued—Spencer’s stomach churned at the sound, which became more visceral with each passing second. He focused on the sound of Aaron’s heartbeat and breaths, but the whine did not subside. 

Spencer lifted his head. “Just unplug it, please!” It stretched on and on, the piercing sound, until the distinct sound of someone fumbling against the thin wall followed. The whine stopped. “Thank you.” 

“Sorry, Spence, Hotch!” 

Aaron’s hands massaged Spencer’s shoulders, trying to relieve them of the tension that had bundled up inside of them at the sound. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice slightly softer than before. Spencer nodded his head against Aaron’s chest. Aaron kept pressed on the muscles there, urging him to relax, to give them some reprieve. 

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered to Aaron, allowing his eyes to close and his muscles to relax. He settled his cheek above the pounding of Aaron’s heart. He listened to it, its speed, its quality, examining every beat in case of a murmur or an arrhythmia, but there wasn’t one. “Will you play with my hair?” 

“Mhm.” Long fingers tangled up in his locks, the dull, bitten fingernails scraping his scalp, and Spencer exhaled long and slow, allowing himself to once again succumb to sleep, and this time, he did not churn with the things of nightmares, but rather immersed himself in the satisfaction of Aaron’s cologne, his skin, the rumble of his voice, the pounding of his heart and lungs singing a song just for Spencer. 

…

When Aaron next awoke, the sunlight poured in the window from around the closed curtains. He had rolled over onto his tummy, one arm strewn over Spencer’s back, face buried in his hair, their legs overlapping, the blankets bunched up around them and tangling them together like an insect trapped in a spider’s web. Drool had strung from the corner of his mouth into Spencer’s hair. Aaron lifted his bleary head and wiped it away with the back of his hand. At his movement, Spencer grumbled a quiet sound. “Sh,” Aaron hushed, “go back to sleep.” He petted Spencer’s hair gently—

“Hey, Hotch, Reid! Open up! I got lunch!” Aaron stiffened at the pounding on the door, the sound which had probably woken him. He took the blankets by their hem and shook them out, carefully tucking Spencer into bed and shushing his mumbled complaints. One brown eye peered up at him, and then Spencer sank into the pillows and fell still, offering no more arguments as Morgan called through the door, “You guys alright in there?”

Aaron jumped onto the other bed, rumpling the covers and the pillows so it would look like he had slept in it, and he went to the door— _ Shit, I’m not wearing any pants. _ “Just a second.” Aaron went to his suitcase and found a pair of tattered basketball shorts, and donning these, he stumbled toward the door. He undid all of the bolts and opened it. His shorts were on backward. Dizziness inundated him; the world spun around and around, and he swallowed against it. The fever had left him and his throat barely hurt, but the exhaustion still clung to him. 

“Hey.” Morgan tilted his head at Aaron. “You alright, man?” Aaron raised his eyebrows and inclined his head, unsure what else he could say on the matter—Morgan knew he was ill, and Aaron wouldn’t betray anything of Spencer’s condition at the risk of seeming  _ too _ knowing. “How’s Reid? JJ said he wasn’t feeling well when she saw him yesterday.”

“He’s asleep,” Aaron said, which was true, but Morgan cocked an eyebrow at him, and Aaron knew his curt answer would not suffice. “He had a fever and some nightmares. But he’s been fine since dawn.”

“His nightmares can be murderous,” Morgan said, and this relieved Aaron as much as it upset him—relief that Morgan didn’t think it was unordinary for Spencer to have nightmares and Aaron to have observed them, upset that Spencer had nightmares regularly enough that everyone seemed to know about them. “I’m glad he’s alright.” He held out a bag from 711 to Aaron, and Aaron accepted it. “Rossi bought it. I don’t know what’s in it. Probably DinoBuddies and Kraft, and something for you if you’re lucky. You’re not the favorite child today.” 

“Reid’s always the favorite child.”

“Nah,” Morgan dismissed, joking with him. “Emily is, too, sometimes. The youngest and the oldest. The rest of us are just white noise.” Aaron chuckled, a snort blown out his nose, and Morgan’s laughter quieted down as soon as it had risen. “How is he, really?” he asked. “With all of this, with everything.”

_ I don’t know how to answer that. _ Aaron bit down on the back of his tongue to keep himself from speaking prematurely, because the truth disclosed far too much. “He’s… better than you might expect.”  _ He isn’t afraid, really. He thinks he’s safe because he’s with me, but I’m scared shitless, and I don’t know if he knows it or not, but he shouldn’t trust me as much as he does, he shouldn’t trust me to protect him or keep him safe because I  _ can’t _ and promising that would set me up to be a liar again. _ “All things considered. I think he’s ready for the nightmare to be over.” 

“I think that goes for all of us. Are  _ you  _ alright?”

It was the second time Morgan had asked this, but this time, it had a different meaning. Aaron didn’t want to answer it. He couldn’t think of anything both honest and shallow enough to protect their secret, and he still felt quite ill, so if Morgan decided to knock him down, Aaron would almost definitely lose that battle miserably. “I’ll be better when I know he’s safe.” That moment still trapped some part of him, the moment where he drew his hand away from Spencer and felt the sticky, coagulated blood and his heart skipped a beat as he thought,  _ I’m going to watch him die, _ and tore off his shirt to press it to the wound, the wound he didn’t see but there had to be one because there was blood and blood meant a wound—that moment trapped the same part of him that still held Haley’s cold body against his chest, the same part of him that had lain on the floor of his apartment with blood gushing from his chest and abdomen and wondered if the last thing he would ever see was the evil eyes of George Foyet, the same part of him that lived crouched in the corner of his father’s shadow weeping and picking the rice grains out of his bloodied knees which bore those scars today. There was a fractured little boy living in all of those moments, still possessed with terror and agony and anguish, and in times like these, that little boy couldn’t stop crying. 

“Yeah,” Morgan said, his voice going quiet. “Me, too.” 

Aaron shifted the subject away; he didn’t want to think about it, and neither did Morgan, so it made no sense for them to stand together in contemplative silence. “Any new leads?”

Morgan’s lips pinched downward at the corners. “Not… exactly.” Aaron looked at him. “Gideon called. There was a murder in his village. A young man. He didn’t know about it until he went into town this morning, but he wanted to know if we could come.”

Aaron’s brow furrowed. “Might be a coincidence. Cause of death?” 

“Gideon is a civilian. The local PD won’t tell him anything. Garcia has reached out for their case files, but they’re still collecting evidence. We’ll know more when they get back to her.” Morgan chewed the inside of his cheek. “There hasn’t been a murder in that town in close to one hundred years. It’s a hell of a coincidence, if that’s what it is.” 

_ Yeah, it is. _ Aaron’s stomach twisted into knots. What if this was more serious than they thought? What if this was serial, and the unsub a stalker?  _ Spencer won’t be safe no matter where we go. _ If the unsub had traveled to Nebraska, killed someone, and then followed Spencer to Atlanta to kill again… His throat and chest felt tight. “Explore it,” he said. “It may be nothing. But we need to know for sure.” 

“Right.” Morgan flashed one more look at him. “Feel better, alright? We’re not as good when we’re two men down.”

“You’ll figure it out. Don’t let Prentiss bully you.”

“Easier said than done.” Aaron’s soft breath of laughter was more genuine this time, and Morgan nodded to him, heading back down the stairs. 

Aaron pushed his way back into the room. Spencer had donned his glasses and held his phone in his hand. “What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Texting Gideon.” 

“Spencer, you’re sick. You don’t need to worry about a murder that happened in  _ Nebraska _ right now.” Aaron sat beside him on the bed and opened up the bag—DinoBuddies, Kraft mac and cheese, two bottles of Sprite, instant oatmeal, a cardboard box of MinuteMaid orange juice, a bag of Twizzlers. Spencer didn’t stop his furious thumbs on the screen of his phone. A crease in his brow, he squinted at his phone. “You’re going to give yourself a headache.” Aaron reached to take the phone away from him. “You need to eat.”

“I need to know if this crime is a serial.”

“You’ll know when everybody else knows. Gideon doesn’t know anything. You heard what Morgan said. He’s a civilian now. He doesn’t have access to the scene, the victimology, or anything else.”

“But if I’m being followed by someone who is killing people, he’s  _ in danger _ , Aaron, and so is my mom—Stop it!” Aaron wrestled the phone away from him and powered it down. “I was in the middle of a text!” 

“If it is serial, then you were  _ followed _ here to Atlanta, and Gideon and your mom are safer the less you communicate with them,” Aaron reminded him. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You need to eat and rest. Obsessing over this won’t make it go away.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

Spencer’s eyes still held the gloss of fever and illness behind his glasses, but they met Aaron’s, filled with reproach and terror. Aaron’s chest tightened, reflecting those same emotions deep inside of him, nestled between his heart and his lungs—terror choking out everything else. “Neither am I,” he confessed faintly. At the admission, Spencer’s eyes softened, and he sat up. His hand folded over Aaron’s. Their fingers nestled together, filling the gaps between one another, but not filling the gap in Aaron’s chest which continued to swell with fear and uncertainty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :) Please leave a comment or kudos if you're enjoying this work!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is our last chapter with our men and their flu. Next chapter, they reenter the investigation. Hold on to your hats, folks, because times are a'changing. :)
> 
> My university resumes classes tomorrow. I will try my best to continue weekly updates, but there is a possibility I will have to stagger them more. I'll burn that bridge when I get to it, I suppose.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!

“Stars, hide your fires; let not light see my black and deep desires.” -William Shakespeare

…

The day passed at an excruciatingly slow pace. Aaron was not accustomed to battling boredom. He spent the day on the bed beside Spencer, munching on teddy grahams, hand feeding them to Spencer’s lips, wiping the crumbs from the top sheet. Spencer was still miserable. Aaron tried to take his temperature, but he couldn’t figure out how to turn on the temporal thermometer (why on earth Spencer couldn’t just keep a regular oral thermometer, which was travel-sized and was easy to use for everyone, Aaron didn’t know) so instead he kept feeding him Tylenol every six hours. 

Spencer slept most of the day. He kept his head in Aaron’s lap, and when he awoke, Aaron would push a cracker to his lips and Spencer would nuzzle it out of his hand like a gentle horse. He would open the bottle of water and tilt it gently and Spencer would drink until he was satisfied, and then Aaron would pet his hair and wipe the dampness from his forehead until he drifted back to sleep. The BAU group chat chirped intermittently, and after the first few hours, Aaron stopped checking it. They only discussed how their leads had turned up dry. A bureau-wide server crash barred Garcia from accessing any of the information forwarded to her by the police in Nebraska, nor could she run any official searches. She offered to go in and reconfigure the servers manually, but they knew that would get her (and the rest of them, by extension) into some hot water, so they instructed her to wait. 

_ She’s gone home by now, _ Aaron realized when he looked at the clock. The team had nothing. The unsub could have gone anywhere in this amount of time.  _ We may never catch him. _ Aaron had scarcely ever seen someone so good at covering his own tracks, but then, without being able to reexamine the crime scene, he couldn’t add to the profile from that data. Would it damage his recollection so much? He’d already given JJ his forensic interview. Maybe he would find something they hadn’t found. Maybe it would jog something in his memory. 

Under different circumstances, he would have done it. He would have tiptoed into the room and examined it alone. But Spencer’s head warmed his lap, and he fingered his feathery hair.  _ I don’t want to. _ It was inexplicable, but he didn’t  _ want _ to see the room again, to go back in there and relive the experience. He didn’t want to see that graffiti again. He didn’t want to feel the blood on the sheets where Spencer had lain. He didn’t want to look out the shattered window into the alley below and wonder which direction the man had headed. He wanted to sit right here, stretched out on this bed, petting Spencer and thinking too loudly about the unsettled churning in the world around him. 

His phone dinged. He reached to check it, swiping it open, expecting a message from the group chat—he supposed he needed to catch up. Instead, it opened to a conversation with Gideon. Aaron raised his eyebrows, blowing a sigh out his nose and wondering what can of worms they had opened by involving Gideon in their lives once again. Was Spencer better off without him? Aaron couldn’t help but wonder. But it had been Spencer’s choice to contact him, and Spencer was a grown man. As much as it irritated Aaron that Gideon had hurt Spencer so badly and got off scot-free, he had other wars to fight right now. 

J Gideon:  _ How is Spencer? He isn’t answering my texts. Is he still with you? Is he safe? _

A Hotchner:  _ He’s with me. He’s safe. He isn’t feeling well. I turned off his phone. It gives him headaches if he stares for too long. He needs to rest. _

J Gideon:  _ Morgan said you’re both sick.  _

A Hotchner:  _ Yeah. _

J Gideon:  _ What kind of headaches? Is he seeing a doctor? Is he safe to travel? _

In the silence of the room with no observers, Aaron allowed himself to roll his eyes. He flexed his knees. They popped. The sound roused Spencer, but he only pressed his face deeper into Aaron’s lap with a mumbled, sleepy sound. Aaron brushed his hair out of his face to admire him, his nose, his jawline, his lips… His thumb trailed over the Cupid’s bow of Spencer’s mouth. Spencer smiled at the gentle touch. 

A Hotchner:  _ He’s safe to travel. He’s seen doctors. I don’t know more than that. _

J Gideon:  _ This is a scary time for him.  _

A Hotchner:  _ I know. _

J Gideon:  _ The lifetime risk of developing schizophrenia when a first-degree relative has it is up to sixteen percent. _

A Hotchner:  _ You sound like Spencer. _

J Gideon:  _ He told me that the first time I met his mom. The stat. Made me promise that if he lost his marbles, I’d do something about it. Get him help. That was ten years ago. He’s gotta be scared. _

Aaron tilted his head back to look at the patterns in the plaster on the ceiling. How was Gideon planning on doing a damn thing in Nebraska after he had taken off and abandoned Spencer? He wouldn’t antagonize Gideon, but the sudden concern for Spencer’s well being got under his skin. 

A Hotchner:  _ I think he’s more concerned with the decapitated head that got left in our room right now. _

It was a more neutral answer, steering the topic away from Gideon and his relationship to Spencer, the role of surrogate father which he had rejected outright and now wanted to reclaim without hindrance. Gideon had once been listed as Spencer’s next of kin on all of his field forms, the first to be notified if something happened to him, the one in charge of making executive decisions for his care if he couldn’t make them for himself. Aaron wondered if Spencer had ever changed that. _ I doubt it. _ The bureau did not prioritize those forms; they were but paperwork shoved in a folder until someone was dead or dying. Aaron thought Haley was still listed as his next of kin. 

J Gideon:  _ How did you decide to proceed? _

There it was, Gideon sticking his nose in their business where it didn’t belong. Aaron’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want to discuss this with anyone yet, much less Gideon. They hadn’t  _ made _ a decision yet, and though it pained Aaron, Spencer was right—it would be irresponsible to give a final answer now, when they were both stressed, ill, and frightened (and refusing to admit their fear to one another). 

A Hotchner:  _ No decision yet. All decision making is postponed for the time being.  _

J Gideon:  _ Spencer was targeted directly. _

A Hotchner:  _ Yes. _

J Gideon:  _ Any leads? _

A Hotchner:  _ No. _

J Gideon:  _ Do you think he’s going to come back for round two? _

A Hotchner:  _ That’s my fear. _

He admitted it to someone, though not Spencer: He was afraid. He was so incredibly afraid. He curled his fingers into Spencer’s hair at the thought, anchoring himself here, on this bed, Spencer’s face pressed against him and arms around his lower body. Nothing would get to Spencer now. Aaron didn’t care if it meant he didn’t sleep. He would do absolutely nothing to jeopardize Spencer’s safety. 

J Gideon:  _ Is WITSEC an option? _

A Hotchner:  _ I trust WITSEC as far as I can throw them. The team wouldn’t agree to it. And neither would he. You know how he is. He’d want to work the case. _

J Gideon:  _ You’re right. He’d want to be hands on in the case. He wouldn’t take it lightly to be removed from the case. Even for his own safety. _

Aaron knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his team would never trust WITSEC again, not for anything but especially not with one of their own.  _ Fool me twice…  _ Spencer was safer with them, monitored, than he was with his identity changed while being shipped around with some other unknown agent. He clenched his jaw, and then he worked to relax it. 

J Gideon:  _ Do you want me to come to Atlanta? _

A Hotchner:  _ No. He’s already worried about your safety. We’re all here. He wants everyone else to stay as far away as possible. Safer that way. _

J Gideon:  _ Spencer means more to me than that. _

A Hotchner:  _ Please. If you show up here, you’ll just worry him. He’s been through enough. Let him be.  _

J Gideon:  _ Okay. Keep me in the loop. Let me know what you find out about the crime scene. Local PD was in over their heads but wouldn’t tell me anything. They’ve never seen anything like it. No details released yet. Guess they don’t trust that I am who I say I am. If I find out anything, I’ll let you know. _

A Hotchner:  _ Quantico servers are down for maintenance. We’re still in the dark on details of the case, and Garcia can’t access any of her engines until it’s repaired. _

J Gideon:  _ That’s damn good timing. Why doesn’t she just repair it? _

A Hotchner:  _ She’s on thin ice with upper management. I asked her not to. We need her more than we need the servers. I would sooner try to figure out those computers myself than trust Kevin Lynch with some of the information she’s handled over the years. _

J Gideon:  _ Understandable.  _

A Hotchner:  _ Thanks, Jason.  _

J Gideon:  _ Please keep him safe, Aaron.  _

A Hotchner:  _ I’ll try my best. _

Aaron wouldn’t make any promises. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t make another promise just to break it. When he vowed something, he meant it. He meant it forever, indefinitely. He had already broken one promise irreparably—he would not make another to follow in its path. Aaron did not make a habit of breaking his promises. He would not make a promise he couldn’t keep. Not even to Spencer. 

Bleary brown eyes blinked up at him. Spencer looked different when he couldn’t see, when he was without his glasses or contacts; he looked  _ dazed _ in some inexplicable way. Spencer smiled as Aaron rumpled his hair, closing his eyes and allowing Aaron to pet him. “How are you feeling?” Aaron asked. 

“Tired… but better.” Spencer tilted his head into the affectionate touch. His voice didn’t hold the same croak as it had before. “You?” 

“I’m fine,” Aaron reassured. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

“Do you think we’ll be field ready by tomorrow?” Spencer asked in his thick, sleepy voice. He rolled over onto his back, staring up at Aaron’s face from below, and his eyes were round like a puppy’s, pleading for something, but Aaron wasn’t sure what.

“Do you?” Aaron asked.  _ He _ would be, but he wouldn’t leave Spencer alone, and if that meant milking another day of feeling bad to stay with him at the hotel, he’d manage it. But Spencer nodded with a smile, and Aaron trailed his thumb over his cheekbone. “Then I think they need us. It sounds like they haven’t gotten very far, and the local PD is not necessarily being forthcoming.”

“Because you yelled at the detective,” Spencer said helpfully. He stretched out his legs with a sigh. Aaron arched an eyebrow down at him. “JJ texted me. She said you yelled at Detective Farraday and threatened to arrest anyone else who called me a name.” 

Aaron leaned his head back. It thumped on the wall. “You’re a federal employee. Technically, it is a crime to harass you on the job, and I’d be within my rights to arrest anyone who I felt was obstructing our investigation.” Spencer’s gaze wasn’t convinced. “I was sick. I wasn’t feeling like myself. I think my conduct with Detective Farraday reflects that.”

“But you’re not going to apologize to him.”

“Hell, no. He doesn’t deserve it.” Spencer’s hand reached out, landing on Aaron’s leg, below his knee, and it rubbed up and down over the grooves of his knee, ending halfway up his thigh under the silk of his basketball shorts, then going back down again, seeking the stimulus of something against his fingertips; usually, he liked hems of fabrics or seams in wallpaper or anything with a trail he could follow. “You were right about him. What you said about law enforcement and domestic violence. I had Garcia run his history. He’s been incriminated for domestic battery twice.” 

Spencer’s fingers moved more slowly over the scars on Aaron’s knees, their unique shapes mirroring the grains of rice he had knelt on as a child. “Did you think he was a suspect, or were you just spiteful?”

“Spiteful and nosy.” 

Spencer smiled. “At least you’re honest.” He kept stimming by rubbing Aaron’s scars, and Aaron watched his face carefully, waiting for him to ask, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and bobbed his head in Aaron’s lap, subtle but rhythmic jerks in his head. He bit his lower lip hard enough for it to blanche, and Aaron touched his mouth with his thumb, pulling the lip out from between his teeth. Spencer’s eyes fluttered open again. His head bobbing ceased, but his fingers rubbed faster. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be. I just don’t want you to hurt yourself,” Aaron explained softly. He put his phone face down on the nightstand and offered his hands to Spencer. “It’s important to self-regulate, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah.” Spencer took Aaron’s hands and fidgeted with them, bending each digit forward into his palm, feeling the way the knuckles moved. Aaron’s knuckles and carpals crackled. “Does it hurt?” Spencer asked. 

Aaron shook his head. “Only on days with bad weather.” The orthopedic surgeon who’d looked at his hands had pinned the X-rays on the light board and asked, “ _ What happened to you? I’ve only seen injuries like these in street fighters. Your wrists look like you bludgeoned a concrete wall without any protection, _ ” and Aaron had mumbled some answer, something that was probably a lie, he thought, because telling medical professionals he had beaten a killer to death with his bare hands and fractured almost every carpal didn’t seem to do him many favors. His grip wasn’t what it was before, and he would be arthritic for life, but the alternative was a surgery that could potentially improve his strength but also had the possibility of paralyzing his nerves and leaving him worse off than he was now. “The barometric pressure changes aggravate it.” 

Spencer nodded, and he kept slowly flexing Aaron’s fingers inward toward his palm and then allowing them to relax again. “Can I ask you something?” 

“You just did.” Spencer shot him a look, and Aaron smiled. “Go ahead,” he allowed. 

Spencer licked his lips. “If someone told you they thought Jack was autistic, what would you do? Would you want to know?” 

Aaron frowned. “Do you think Jack is autistic?” Spencer shook his head. It was just a question, a hypothetical. “It would depend who it was, but… I would like to know. I would want to do the best I could to support him and provide him what he needed to succeed. I would want to be able to give him the tools to grow in a way that was in his best interest. I couldn’t do that if I didn’t know.” Spencer nodded slowly, looking thoughtful, bending Aaron’s fingers with more focus. “Why do you ask?” Aaron supposed if Spencer didn’t want to say, he wouldn’t, but he wanted to ensure he extended the invitation in case Spencer  _ did _ want to say.

Spencer’s jaw shifted. He considered for a moment, and then he said, “Henry.” A single word, but filled with senses of conflict and responsibility. “He didn’t start talking until last year. He doesn’t like to make eye contact. JJ… I think she’s convinced it has something to do with Will and how their relationship ended. She thinks he’ll outgrow it.”

“You don’t think so.” Spencer shook his head. “Have you told her?”

“Would I have just asked you that if I had already told her?” Aaron raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Spencer had a point. “I don’t know if I should. If it’s my place. I—I think Will is mean to him. About his stims, and his stuffie, and his language acquisition.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He…” Spencer’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “I started teaching him to sign before he was talking. It helped him. It helped JJ, too, and Emily—Emily signs, so that was easy for her. But now, whenever he comes back from Will’s, he refuses to sign. Like he expects to be punished if he does it. And he stims differently, and he reacts differently to his stuffie. And Will always complains that he doesn’t eat when he has him. He samefoods instant Quaker Oats strawberry flavor. I think Will doesn’t give it to him.” 

“Are you going to talk to JJ?”

Spencer sighed. “I should. I’m worried about him.”

“But?”

“Will already thinks I wrecked their relationship. How’s he going to act if he finds out I’ve armchair diagnosed their son as autistic? He could treat Henry even worse, or try to force him into ABA, and with their custody agreement, he could—well, the courts don’t always treat neurodivergent kids the best.” 

Aaron nodded slowly. He understood. He knew things with JJ and Will had been tense for a long time, maybe since the beginning; JJ had never seemed altogether too happy with him, but rather like she had opted in because she was pregnant and she thought that was the right thing to do. They had fallen apart during JJ’s CIA placement, but it had been a long time coming. “I know things between JJ and Will are uneasy,” he said. “But I think he has to want what’s best for his son. I think that must be more important to him than using Henry as a tool over JJ.” 

Soft eyes found his. “But you know the statistics of law enforcement officers and domestic violence.” Spencer looked away quickly.

Aaron sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. I do.” Will didn’t have JJ under his thumb anymore, but he still had Henry, and he would have for the indefinite future, as long as he  _ wanted _ some custody. “You know having you around is the best thing for Henry now.” Spencer squeezed his hand, as if to ask for elaboration. “You can provide him what he needs to succeed and can help give JJ tools your parents didn’t have. Like teaching him to sign. Or just showing him that autistic adults can be happy and prosperous. That’s important for him to see, I think.” 

Spencer folded his fingers toward his palm again. “I agree. It would’ve helped me a lot to see someone like me when I was his age.”

Aaron’s brow quirked, and he gently teased, “What, you would’ve graduated high school at ten instead of twelve?” 

“Oh, hush.” Spencer pawed at his chest, a  _ whap _ of rebuttal. “You’re a genius in your own right. Graduating law school at twenty. You know most people would find that pretty impressive. Why don’t you tell them?”

Aaron shrugged. “I did, once. It’s not exactly pertinent now. That was twenty years ago. And there’s only room for one resident genius on this team.” He had never been like Spencer, or at least, he didn’t think of himself like Spencer did. He didn’t crave knowledge, didn’t thirst for it. Sure, he was of above average intelligence, but he hadn’t pursued academia for the sheer pleasure of it. “I got my education like a fox in a trap chewing off its own foot,” he said, a little quieter now. “I was desperate to get away from home. I didn’t do it because I was smart, or because I wanted to impress anyone. I was just trying to get a leg up in life.” 

To his surprise, Spencer nodded. “I kept getting degrees to try to make people take me more seriously. It didn’t work.” He frowned. “Though… I guess I wouldn’t take a fifteen year old seriously, either, no matter what he had a doctorate in.” 

“But you’re still studying now.”

“Well, yeah. Now I accrue random knowledge and wait for it to help us catch a serial killer at some point.” Aaron chuckled. Spencer released Aaron’s hand and yawned, muffling it with his own palm, and then he rolled over to leave Aaron’s lap. 

Aaron reached for him. “Where are you going?”

Spencer blinked quizzically back at him. “I’m going to take a shower, if you don’t mind. I feel all sticky.” Aaron let go of him, allowing him to pick up his glasses and go to his suitcase in search of a change of clothes. He set out an outfit for tomorrow, complete with the mismatched socks of his choice, and then he took a new pair of flannel pajamas into the bathroom. He left the door cracked open. Through it, Aaron could spy his body, just the blur of it, not the details, and he averted his eyes. 

The water came on, and steam trickled from the cracked door. Aaron watched the silver lining drift out from it and form shapes in the air. He drummed his fingers on his thighs. Then, his phone rang. He picked it up. Jessica’s name hovered on the screen. “Hello?” 

“Daddy?” Jack’s voice surprised him. Jack didn’t often call from Jessica’s phone, not without her putting him on first. In fact, it had only happened once before, in the middle of the night when he’d had a nightmare and he didn’t want to wake anyone so he swiped her phone from her nightstand and called him. Jessica had been upset, more that Jack hadn’t wanted to wake her than anything. 

“Hey, buddy, what’s up? Is everything okay?” Jack sniffled. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Where’s Aunt Jessica?” 

“She’s downstairs,” Jack whispered. “She was talking to Grandpa.” He sniffed again; he needed to blow his nose, but he wasn’t very good at that yet and needed an adult’s help, and from more than six hundred miles away, Aaron couldn’t help him. His heart sank at the desperate little sound. “She said there’s another bad guy.” 

Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from seeing red. Jessica had  _ one job _ —to keep the kids, all three of them, from finding out about the details of his work. They all were traumatized enough by Haley’s death. They didn’t need to know about the host of other evils the world held, the ones he chased. “Yeah, buddy, I’m chasing another bad guy. That’s what I do. You know that.” 

Jack made a thin sound. “She said this one is gonna get Dr. Reid.” 

_ How much would a nanny cost? _ Aaron wondered as his vision blurred. Jack didn’t  _ deserve _ this. Jack deserved to be safe; Aaron did what he did to protect Jack and all of the children like him in this world. What kind of a parent was he if he couldn’t even protect his son from the stories and the rumors attached to his work? “Nobody is going to get hurt, Jack. I promise.” It was a promise he hoped he could keep. He had never broken a promise to Jack before. 

He whimpered again. “She was crying… Daddy, she was scared. I don’t want anybody to hurt Dr. Reid.” 

Aaron sighed. “Someone is following Dr. Reid in a not nice way, so I’m staying with him to make sure he’s safe. He isn’t going to get hurt.” 

“Why’d she say that, Daddy?”

He licked his lips, trying to think of a way to explain post-traumatic stress disorder in a way that Jack would understand. “Well… sometimes, when someone we love is hurt or dies suddenly, we worry about that happening to other people we care about. Aunt Jessica is afraid of someone following her and the people she loves, so when she hears that someone is following my friend, it scares her.” 

“Because of Mommy?” 

“Yeah, because of Mommy.” 

“Are they gonna send Dr. Reid with the strangers to keep him safe?”

“No, I’m going to stay with him. He’s not going anywhere.” Jack’s breath kept sniffling. “Do you feel better now, buddy?” Aaron asked, tilting his head as he reclined on the bed. “It sounds like you need to blow your nose.”

“Mhm.” 

“I think you should give Aunt Jessica her phone back and ask her to help you blow your nose, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“And give her a big hug.”

“I will. I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, buddy.” Aaron listened to Jack’s breath until the line died, and then he ended the call, and he glanced up to see the stream of steam from the bathroom door dying down. Spencer had turned off the shower and was dressing himself in the steamy bathroom; through the cloud, Aaron spied flashes of his body, just stretches of ivory skin. He listened as Spencer brushed his teeth. Then, he emerged from the bathroom. 

He went to the other bed and pulled the covers back. Aaron glanced over at him. “What are you doing?”

“We’ve been sweating in that bed since yesterday morning. It’s grossing me out.” Aaron shrugged it off; that was a fair enough assessment. He pushed himself up and went to get a change of clean pajamas. “Who was on the phone?”

“Jack.” 

“Oh. Is he feeling better?”

“Yeah, I think so.” 

“That’s good.” Spencer reached to check his phone, and then he settled on the bed with it, kicking up his legs and reading the most recent messages. Aaron headed into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar just like Spencer had done so he could see out. 

Spencer reclined on his stack of pillows.

🌞JJ🌞:  _ How are you feeling? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Better. We’ll see you guys tomorrow. Try not to drop any remotes tonight, please.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Bet that was a rude awakening. Sorry. Em sometimes gets a little overzealous  _ 🙄 _ She didn’t mean to fling it that hard. _

📕Spence📘:  _ I don’t wanna know!!!  _

📕Spence📘:  _ I was already awake though. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Why? That was super early this morning. You guys are sick, you should’ve been resting. We thought it was weird that Hotch was awake. We thought you must’ve woken him up when the TV came on. _

📕Spence📘:  _ I had a nightmare. He woke me up.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Oh no. I bet that freaked him out after what happened. He seemed a little shaken during our interview… I thought it was just because he was sick. But he’s being weird with you, isn’t he? _

Spencer’s eyes widened as he read JJ’s text message. He licked his lips and looked at the bathroom door, but Aaron had already jumped into the shower, and he couldn’t call out a question—JJ, after all, was just in the next room, and she would hear them through the walls if they did much more than whisper. 

📕Spence📘:  _ Not weird. He’s been really nice since he found me. And since everything. I think he is freaked out. He won’t admit it. But I think he is. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ I’m glad he’s being nice. I’d have to bully him if he wasn’t.  _ 😉

📕Spence📘:  _ lol. I still can’t believe he bullied the detective _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ He did!! It was so strange. I’ve never seen him act like that with anybody who wasn’t an unsub. Em said she thought we were going to have to keep him from throwing punches. It was WEIRD, Spence. I don’t think he’s ever been so close to fistfighting with a cop before. _

📕Spence📘:  _ He was sick and tired. His judgment was off. Sometimes he gets like that when he’s upset. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Like Hardwick? _

📕Spence📘:  _ yeah _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Well, for what it’s worth, we were all going to put that one cop on his ass. That man didn’t know what can of worms he opened. Looked like he was going to piss himself. Em said Thompson’s partner reported that they thought his disappearance was a joke. The PD is not necessarily being forthcoming about this crime. If we weren’t feds, I doubt they’d be doing anything. _

📕Spence📘:  _ I know. CSI was willing to help. Hopefully tomorrow the servers will be back up and Garcia will be able to get in contact with Nebraska PD. Do you think that lead will pan out? _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Hope so. Nothing else has so far. We’ve gotta get lucky eventually. If the Nebraska case has the same MO, she may be able to run that and find more crimes. We don’t have much else. Strauss will strip Hotch’s badge if we don’t come back soon. _

📕Spence📘:  _ You think she would? _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Maybe. _

📕Spence📘:  _ The man who did this could be long gone by now. May be waiting for me in DC. It’s been two days. It never takes us this long to come up with something. _

🌞JJ🌞: _ Two of our agents got sick. Judgment is foggy because you’re directly involved. Maybe you should stay with me and Em in DC. Take one brave SOB to come into a house with all three of us to get at you. _

📕Spence📘:  _ No. Won’t do that to Henry. He wasn’t afraid of Hotch. Odds he’d be afraid of two women are very slim. A homophobic stalker would have a hayday with all three of us under one roof. Safer by myself. Nobody else can get hurt that way.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ We’re going to find a way to protect you. Maybe you can stay with Morgan or Rossi. Rossi’s got a pretty intense security system. That may be the safest place for you to go. With one of us, with security. If you were a regular crime victim, we’d put you in WITSEC, you know that.  _

📕Spence📘:  _ I think Hotch would have an aneurysm if any of us so much as said the word WITSEC. I’m a material witness. I need to be on this case. I can’t do that in protective custody.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to stop worrying about you in WITSEC. I trust us more than somebody we don’t know. I want you close by.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ He’s really worried about you, isn’t he? _

📕Spence📘:  _ I think this is triggering him a lot more than he wants to let on. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Do you blame him? _

📕Spence📘:  _ No.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Do you think his judgment is compromised? _

📕Spence📘:  _ No. I feel safer with him than with anyone else.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Why? _

📕Spence📘:  _ I don’t know. I just do.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Okay. As long as you feel safe. That’s what’s important. Em is calling me, it’s getting late. Get some sleep, okay? I love you. _

📕Spence📘:  _ Love you too. Sweet dreams. _

Spencer put down his phone face-down on the nightstand and took off his glasses with a heavy sigh. He had slept all day; he wouldn’t sleep tonight. But he knew better than to mention this to Aaron, who would unequivocally refuse to sleep apart from him—and Spencer didn’t  _ blame _ him for his insistence, but it made him feel guilty that his insomnia would disturb someone else. Morgan never failed to remind him when they roomed together that it was an inconvenience. 

Aaron stepped out of the bathroom, clad in a different old T-shirt and basketball shorts. He sat beside Spencer on the bed, on top of the covers. Spencer scooted beside him; he didn’t ask, but he didn’t need to, because Aaron’s arms opened reflexively to catch him, and he curled up against his chest, limbs settling in all of the right places to draw them closer together. Aaron smelled good, crisp, clean, like his antiperspirant—he used Dove Sensitive for Men, and Spencer wondered if he had sensitive skin or if he just liked the smell or if there was some other reason attached to it. He wanted to ask. He didn’t. “You’re being too nice to me.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “What?” he asked, baffled, and Spencer realized how silly it sounded, that he abruptly criticized Aaron for being  _ too nice _ to him, for not being his usual drill sergeant, take no prisoners self, that it came out of nowhere after Spencer had just willingly rolled into Aaron’s arms and buried himself into his embrace. 

“JJ thinks you’re being weird,” Spencer explained. “I think I talked her out of it, but if she’s noticing it…” 

“So is everyone else,” Aaron finished quietly. Spencer nodded into his chest. “What should I do? Do you want me to yell at you in front of them tomorrow?” Spencer chuckled. “I’m serious. We could stage a pretty good ruse.” 

“You think?” Spencer asked. “I’m not as good of an actor as you are.” And he didn’t think Aaron had ever  _ yelled _ at him, not really, not in the field; he’d been  _ reprimanded _ a metric ton of times, always for good reason, but Aaron didn’t typically raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He was scary enough like it was. “Yelling might be coming on a little strong. Just—be normal.” 

“How would we define normal?”

“How things were before.” 

“I was trying to do that already.”  _ I know. So was I. _ Spencer didn’t know what to say. They weren’t doing a good enough job; their microexpressions were off, their body language, and the profilers noticed it. “I don’t want them to find out while we’re here.” 

Spencer nodded. “I think it should be on our terms… if we decide to get to that point.” He didn’t know if they would reach that point or not. “JJ’s off our trail. Which means so is Emily. We’ll be okay.” He yawned, and Aaron mirrored him. “We might never catch him,” Spencer whispered, a quiet thought, looking down at the cover of the bed. “He’s got a big head start now.”

“I know,” Aaron agreed. He pulled the blankets down, and Spencer slid underneath them, Aaron lying beside him. “Have you considered that he could be waiting for you in DC?”

Spencer clenched his jaw, and he nodded. “Yeah. JJ wants me to stay with her and Emily. I told her no. Then she said Morgan or Rossi.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“I don’t want anyone else to be in danger.” 

Aaron’s face set. “I don’t want _ you  _ to be in danger.” 

Spencer shifted his jaw thoughtfully. How could he willingly go into someone else’s home, knowing there was the possibility he was being followed by someone who would seek to hurt them? He couldn’t do that in good conscience. He had slept in a bed, and a man climbed into the window with Aaron  _ right there _ to do everything he had wanted to do to tourture the both of them. At any point, he could have strangled Aaron, shot him, stabbed him, smothered him, bludgeoned him. “He didn’t hurt me the first time. If he comes back, and maybe he won’t, but if he does—maybe he won’t hurt me the second time, and there will be nothing to worry about.”  _ Except another dead gay prostitute who local PD won’t care enough about to investigate so the killer will never be caught.  _ “If he comes back and I’m with someone, he could hurt them.” 

“Any of us can hold our own, unless you’re planning on cozying up with Garcia.”

“Everyone is vulnerable when they’re asleep.” Spencer averted his eyes. 

Aaron pursed his lips. “I don’t think anyone is going to get hurt trying to protect you. I  _ do _ think you could get hurt or worse, if no one stays with you.”  _ I don’t think it’s worth the risk. _ Spencer would never forgive himself if someone on the team was harmed trying to protect him. “You could be kidnapped. Anything could happen.” Spencer fell silent. “You’re not going to sway on this, are you?”

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Good. Because neither am I.” 

Spencer wasn’t surprised. He was relieved, in a way, that they cared this much about him, all of them, not just Aaron (but having Aaron care this much was special, certainly). Ten years ago, he never would have expected to have so many people in his life willing to risk their own safety to protect him. If it were one of them, any of them, he would have done it in a heartbeat, would’ve gone to any end to protect them—that was why losing Emily had hurt so much, he thought, the moment he realized that he wished it was him instead. 

Spencer folded himself into Aaron’s embrace and curled up with his eyes closed. Aaron smelled his damp hair, and Spencer made a little happy sound. “Why doesn’t it bother you,” Aaron asked, “when I touch you? Like it does with other people.” 

Spencer pursed his lips. “I don’t know.” Using the top of his foot, he drew circles on the mattress. The sheet was cold and smooth and stimulating, and the bed smelled clean and fresh. Spencer liked it. “I only have an aversion to certain touches… strangers, mostly.” There were some people whose touch bothered him specifically—his father’s, the last time they’d met; his Aunt Ethel and Uncle Gordon; Chief Strauss—but in general, intimacy with a person helped him overcome the touch aversion. And this was the most intimate he had ever been with anyone. “You don’t bother me… most of the team doesn’t. Only Morgan, sometimes, when he does something really gross to freak me out, or Garcia because those keyboards get gross if you don’t disinfect them often enough and the last time she caught me sneaking into her office to do it for her, she got kind of mad at me.”

Aaron laughed. “I’m sure she was trying to protect the tens of thousands of dollars worth of equipment that are kept in her office.”

“It’s a design flaw to make advances in technology that can’t easily be disinfected,” Spencer insisted. “If I can’t wipe it off with Lysol once a day without it falling apart, it wasn’t worth as much money as everybody thought it was.”

“I think the bureau would disagree with you.” Aaron’s brow furrowed. “So you’re the reason everyone’s desktop is shiny and clean every Monday morning.”

Spencer pinched his tongue between his teeth. “I plead the fifth.” Aaron laughed. He kissed him, kissed him without asking and without warning, and surprise and joy burbled through Spencer all the way to the roof of his tummy, and he pressed into the kiss, eager for Aaron’s lips to form his into new shapes. Spencer wanted Aaron on top of him, wanted Aaron’s body to press his into this mattress—but he was tired. 

He was tired, and so was Aaron, who gently broke the kiss and made a soft gasping sound against his mouth. Spencer nuzzled against his neck, peppering kisses there, his tongue sneaking out to slide across the sinew and the pulses in Aaron’s neck. Aaron’s heavy breath hitched, wafting across his face. Spencer scraped his teeth, only his front teeth, across his skin, careful not to leave a mark, not so much as an imprint of his teeth left behind. Aaron’s body pressed flush against his. “Spencer,” he said, a gentle denial, and Spencer accepted it, settling beside Aaron’s body on the bed. Aaron’s arm rested protectively around him. “Get some rest.” 

Spencer nodded, and he closed his eyes, feeling the way Aaron’s chest rose and fell against his body. Usually, he would have counted the places to pi to fall asleep, but now he counted all the things he liked about Aaron, counted every time Aaron’s hands had ever touched his body and brought him comfort. 

Aaron, too, drifted off to sleep with his arm draped around Spencer’s body. Nightmares in a furious red haze consumed him—Haley, blood, Sean, gunshots, Jack, knife blade, Spencer, needles, Jessica, a disembodied head, a slur carved on the wall, “ _ If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them; it’s a good deal,” _ Spencer, Jack, Haley, “ _ You should’ve made a deal, _ ” the slur, the needles, the gun, “ _ Promise me? I promise, _ ” Haley, the figure standing over Spencer’s bed, Haley, he pulled off his mask, Haley, Foyet was under the mask,  **_Haley_ ** —

He awoke with a gasp, tears rolling down his cheeks and breath trembling. The neon green light of the alarm clock on the bed beside him streaked in his vision. The world rotated around him like on an axis; he couldn’t catch himself from the dizziness, the sensation of falling. A sharp pain pierced his chest. His throat closed up. Spencer stirred beside him, not wholly awake—he mumbled, “You alright?” and Aaron didn’t have any words. His voice was trapped in his throat. His whole body shuddered. It hurt to breathe. He hyperventilated. His lips and fingertips were numb. He reached clumsily for Spencer, pulled Spencer on top of him; he tried to be gentle, but his whole body quaked uncontrollably and made his movements a series of loose, panicked fumbles. 

Spencer didn’t stray. He sprawled out on top of Aaron’s chest, his entire body weight pressing into Aaron’s, and the pressure grounded him. Aaron’s heart couldn’t thunder out of his chest while Spencer’s roared right back in return. Spencer wrapped his arms around Aaron’s neck and clung to him. He was more awake now, Aaron could tell, could feel his eyelashes blinking against his face. Aaron buried his face in the crook of Spencer’s neck and wept. He wanted to apologize and hide his shame, but he couldn’t speak for the chattering of his jaw and the excessive rattling of his breaths. Spencer held fast to him and did not move, sinking his weight into those deep points of his body, grounding him. 

Spencer didn’t have any comforting words. He had statistics. He used those in a thick, hazy, sleepy mumble. “Panic disorder impacts more people than we know… More than five percent of adults will experience panic attacks at some point in their lifetime. Close to three percent will have panic disorder in any given year. Post-traumatic stress disorder has the highest rate of comorbidity as any psychiatric disorder. More than ninety percent of PTSD patients have another depressive, anxiety, or mood disorder to boot.” Spencer yawned. His breath was hot against Aaron’s neck. “But we don’t yet have good data on the occurrence of complex PTSD, which is PTSD acquired from long-term trauma, like in abused children or intimate partner violence. We  _ do _ have a list of Adverse Childhood Experiences which increase a person’s risk to develop C-PTSD as an adult…” 

Spencer kept prattling. Aaron wasn’t listening to his words—they didn’t matter (in fact, the facts made him a little more anxious, hearing all of the possible things that  _ could be _ wrong with him, and as much as he knew Spencer intended to make him feel less alone, he did not want to sit right now and listen to how broken he was; he already knew that). But the timbre of his voice carried strongly to Aaron. He could sink into the notes of it, the sleepy bit of rumble to it, and find himself there. He sobbed, brokenly and silently, into Spencer’s neck. Spencer coiled a hand into his hair and talked until he cried himself to sleep, still lying directly on top of him, stretched out like a cat soaking up a sunbeam. 


	15. Chapter 15

“Later that night, I held an atlas in my lap, ran my fingers across the whole world, and whispered, ‘Where does it hurt?’ It answered, ‘Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.’” -Warsan Shire

…

When Spencer entered the conference room in the police department, he did not turn on the lights, but rather left himself in the dark, sitting down at the table with his cup of coffee before him. Aaron had gone to speak with the detective—Spencer hadn’t asked him what he intended to say, and Aaron hadn’t said, and they both seemed fairly comfortable with that decision, the mutual silence they shared. Spencer did not look at the evidence board. He gazed across the room to the opposite wall, staring at it, projecting outside of himself until his vision went fuzzy. 

He rocked in the chair, one hand on the table tracing up one of the smooth seams in the wood. A low, steady hum built in his throat, unwavering, while he thought. The graffiti on the grave, the smile on the lips behind the white mask, the slur on the wall, his glasses, the same message delivered to Thompson’s partner… It all meant something, slowly coming together. The image flashed to his mind again and again, the man wearing  _ his _ glasses—he’d punched the lenses out of them and then had  _ worn _ them. What did that mean? Some kind of projection? Someone who wanted to  _ become _ him? But then why would someone stalk him with intent to harm while also seeking to become him? Granted, a lot of times, the actions of the violent men they chased were not explicable or logical by the normal sense, but Spencer prided himself in being able to puzzle out the logic of people experiencing violent episodes better than most people—the neurodivergence, he thought, helped, though he would never have said as much. It helped his pattern recognition and helped things come together in his mind more easily. 

Nothing was coming together in his mind now. Every time he revisited the memory, that same fearful helplessness curdled in the pit of his belly, that terror only cured when Aaron wrapped his arms around him. Spencer wasn’t afraid while he was with Aaron. He wished it was mutual—it wasn’t. Aaron wouldn’t say so, but he was frightened, and Spencer couldn’t blame him. 

Spencer had been fast asleep when Aaron reached for him, scooped him out of a peaceful dream and dragged him,  _ dragged him _ , on top of him, and if Spencer hadn’t smelled Aaron’s cologne and recognized the size and warmth of his hands, he almost certainly would have screamed. But he did recognize the cologne and the warmth and the broken noises Aaron uttered as he tried to stifle his sobs and the hitches of panic in his breath. Spencer had seen enough panic attacks in his day. His mother had had them a lot when she went off her medication. Spencer had had them, too, when he first got sober—when he no longer sought to cure the nightmares with a needle in his arm, the nightmares tried to follow him into reality. Cheryl had helped. He would tiptoe over to her apartment, either knocking or letting himself in, and would make a mug of green tea in her yellow kitchen, and her cat would curl up in his lap and allow him to stroke its fur while he wrapped himself up in Cheryl’s duvet. Sometimes Cheryl would wake up and join him; sometimes he would fall asleep on her couch and she would find him in the morning when she got up for breakfast. He had done that long enough, and now, he hadn’t had a panic attack in years. 

Spencer wondered if Aaron knew what they were, how often he had them, if he was always alone—Spencer had never seen him do that before, and he assumed Aaron kept it under check. He wouldn’t show that sort of face to the team; it was too vulnerable. Aaron didn’t like to be vulnerable. Spencer was honored he got to see those parts of him now. Would it be too forward to bring it up again, to make pointers, to offer help? Spencer wasn’t sure. He had no doubt Aaron would’ve preferred to sweep the whole event under the rug like nothing had happened at all. But he had cried himself to sleep with his face pressed into Spencer’s shoulder, and Spencer had slept on top of him for the rest of the night, using deep pressure therapy to settle his proprioceptors. Aaron, whether he realized it or not, had sought that, had pulled Spencer’s body on top of him. 

Maybe Aaron wouldn’t appreciate it if Spencer offered help verbally. No, Aaron wouldn’t like to talk about it, Spencer suspected (as much as he suspected Aaron  _ needed _ to talk about it, he would have to reach that place in his own time, and Spencer or anyone else weedling him for it would do no good). But Spencer could give him a weighted blanket. He thought maybe that would help. 

The door to the conference room swung open, interrupting Spencer’s tapping and tracing and rocking and humming, and he looked up at Morgan. Morgan went to turn on the lights, but then he seemed to think differently and left them off. “Hey.” He sat at the head of the long table, a seat away from Spencer. “What’s up?” 

Spencer shrugged and took a long swig out of his coffee. “Waiting for everyone else to get here. Where’s Rossi?”

“He’s mediating to make sure Hotch and that asshole detective don’t throw hands.” Spencer’s brow furrowed. “We’re not kidding, you know. Hotch really wanted to throw down with that guy. Would’ve been funny to watch under different circumstances, but right now, it’d be great if he could keep his hands in his pockets and focus on what we’re doing.” Spencer nodded slowly.  _ I wish he wouldn’t _ . Spencer didn’t want anyone causing strife on his account, and while he knew Aaron thought it was warranted, to Spencer, it simply wasn’t. “How are you doing?” Morgan asked, and Spencer knew he meant it in more than the typical greeting way. 

Spencer ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. “I’m alright,” he said, which was the truth—all things considered, he was  _ alright. _ He felt fine, more or less. His feelings about the head and the slur and the glasses weren’t crystallized yet, maybe because he was busy sorting out his feelings for Aaron, and Spencer didn’t have the power to try to sort out more than one type of feeling at a time. Maybe he was aggressively avoiding those negative feelings and trying to focus on the positive instead. He wasn’t sure yet, but he knew he couldn’t betray too much information to Morgan—not if he wanted Aaron to keep all of his teeth. He would start brainstorming a way to break this to Morgan, but it wouldn’t be ready today or tomorrow. He would need a full plan, and he suspected that plan would require assistance of more than one person to execute successfully (he hoped Emily and JJ would be willing to help), which meant he would have to tell them  _ first. _ Very complex matters, things better saved for when he was home, hopefully after they had caught this unsub or at least had some leads. 

“Just alright?” Morgan asked. “Somebody left a head in your hotel room.” Spencer shrugged. He didn’t know what else to do or say. “How are you feeling, for real? What’s going on in your head?”

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “You all keep asking me that, and I don’t have a good answer for anyone yet. I don’t know what’s going on up there.” JJ, Aaron, Morgan—they all wanted to know  _ how he was, _ and he didn’t know how he was. He only knew he was a hell of a lot better when he curled up in Aaron’s embrace. “I don’t have any leads. I’m a material witness, but I didn’t have my glasses, so I couldn’t see anything. I can’t think of anyone in my life who would want to do this to me, and some aspects of this whole thing are just—just self-contradictory, intrinsically self-contradictory, and I don’t know if I can’t make sense of it because I’m too close or if it genuinely is as backward as I think it is.”

Morgan steepled his fingers on the table. “What do you think is backward about it?” 

Morgan didn’t react to his outburst, and Spencer was glad—he hadn’t meant for it all to come pouring out of him like that. Hell, until he said it aloud, he hadn’t felt it out into complete sentences in his own head. “The glasses,” he said. “He didn’t just  _ take _ them. They weren’t a trophy, not traditionally. He was  _ wearing _ them. That suggests replication, someone who wants to  _ become _ me, and yet why would someone want to become me if they hate me, me specifically or gay people in general, enough to do this?” 

Pursing his lips, Morgan tilted his head. “Steven Fitzgerald?” 

Spencer frowned. “You think?” 

He shrugged. “A gay guy sees you, being happy with yourself, being out, and it makes him angry he can’t have that. So he tries to scare you into being where he was, and he takes a part of you with him so he can become you.”

Spencer picked at his fingernails. “But no one knew.”

“Yeah.” Morgan sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, nobody knew. We keep circling back to that.” He tilted his head. “Garcia texted me. Servers are still down this morning. Supposedly a few more hours of maintenance for them. A hell of a time for it.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “You know we love you, right? All of us. Not just me.”

The sudden question drew Spencer’s attention. “Yeah,” he said, “of course. We’re family. You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t.” The team showed him their affection for him regularly, and Spencer appreciated it, appreciated every gesture, every accommodation, every touch. Emily’s dry wit, Morgan’s unyielding support and inclusion, Garcia’s urge to bring up the servers herself to solve this case, Rossi bringing Spencer’s samefood and not mocking him for it, JJ’s hugs and her text messages and her constantly checking in,  _ Aaron. _

“I’m just making sure you know. That we want you to be happy. And we’re going to catch the guy who did this.”

It seemed the team had adopted that mantra. “Hotch keeps saying that, too.” A crinkle appeared on Morgan’s forehead. “We’re going to catch this guy. Keeps repeating it. But… the odds are getting slimmer each day that passes. He probably isn’t even in Atlanta anymore, not if he’s smart, and he has to be pretty smart to do what he did getting into the hotel room—”

“Don’t be so negative, man.”

“I’m not. I’m being realistic.” Spencer tilted his head as he looked back at Morgan, tracing the crease in the wood again. “I guess… I think Hotch says it to make himself feel better. And I think you’re doing that, too.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Alright, smart guy, whatever you say.” He kicked out his legs under the table. “Are you sure you’re doing alright? You’ve been holed up with Hotch since we got here. Not saying he’s not a great guy to have attached at your hip when you want a guard dog, but he’s not somebody I’d ever turn to for emotional support. If somebody left a head in my hotel room, he wouldn’t be my first call for reassurance.” 

_ Oh. _ Another probe, another prod, another postulation Spencer couldn’t quite answer honestly (and the stakes were much higher with this one, he knew). “I’m fine,” he said. “He’s actually… I mean, he’s not exactly  _ nurturing, _ but he’s been better than I would’ve expected before all this happened.”

Morgan’s face was unconvinced, like he didn’t believe Spencer’s assertion. “He said you had a nightmare, when I saw him.”

Spencer traced the table faster with his index finger. “Yeah, I did.”

“What did he do?”

“He woke me up. And he didn’t do it by pelting me with rolled up socks, unlike  _ somebody _ ,” Spencer reminded Morgan pointedly. Morgan grimaced, and Spencer felt guilty for reminding him of the time after a horrible case that Morgan had thrown balled up pairs of dirty socks at Spencer until he woke up from his nightmare. “He stayed awake and sat with me until I went back to sleep.”

Morgan’s eyes widened, incredulous. “ _ Really? _ ”

Spencer wondered if he had betrayed too much. Softer, he said, “I think it… it scared him. That I woke up like that. After what happened before. Not that he would admit it, but that’s just my inkling.” 

Morgan nodded, accepting the answer. “So Hotch is really being nice to you. Are you being straight with me?”

Spencer grinned. “No, I’m not—the whole reason we’re here is that I’m not doing that with anyone, and somebody got really mad about it.”

Morgan’s eyes widened, and he laughed, and Spencer did, too. “So you got gay jokes now, pretty boy?” Spencer blushed, ducking his head, inclining his eyebrows. He didn’t often see the opportunity to tell good jokes; humor usually went over his head. Morgan laughed again. 

“What’s so funny?” Emily and JJ entered the conference room. They, too, left the lights off, JJ sitting beside Spencer and Emily on her other side. “You guys are awfully perky for this hour of the morning.”

“Reid thinks he can tell gay jokes now.”

Emily arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? Man, I’ve got the plethora to teach you. Buckle yourself in.” 

“Emily, don’t—” JJ already began to blush. 

Emily brushed her off. “Why was the lesbian sick?” Morgan and Spencer looked at each other and shrugged. JJ buried her face in her hands; it was clear she had heard this joke before, this reel before, and she wasn’t looking forward to hearing it again. “She was lacking in vitamin D.” Morgan burst out laughing. 

Spencer didn’t. “I don’t get it.”

“Vitamin D,” Emily repeated, and Spencer shrugged, which made Morgan tremble harder with his laughter. Emily opened her mouth to explain it, but JJ swatted her pointedly, shaking her head. “I won’t, I won’t… Goodness, you act like I’m going to take all of his innocence. Okay. How many heterosexual Californians does it take to change a lightbulb?” 

“Uh… one?”

“Trick question. There aren’t any heterosexuals in California.” Spencer rolled his eyes, and JJ snorted a quiet laugh while Morgan kept chuckling. “I’m sorry, my lesbian jokes are a little lacking. Sex with women is great and all, but I primarily became a lesbian to disappoint my mother.” Morgan kept chuckling, and JJ pinched the bridge of her nose, her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Okay, last one. Being gay is okay, being bisexual is okay, being straight is okay, but you know what’s not okay?”

Spencer piped up, “Using improper antimicrobial stewardship particularly in regards to antibiotic administration leading to the growth of superbugs faster than modern medicine can develop new antibiotics which is now taking an estimated forty thousand lives every year?”

Morgan and JJ thought his assertion was hilarious, both cracking up, but Emily frowned, “I—no— _ what? _ The answer is  _ wearing crocs, _ you absolute nerd—how would the other one even be a joke?” Her flustered response earned more tittered laughter from Morgan and JJ. 

Aaron and Rossi entered the conference room, and they turned on the lights. JJ wiped tears away from her eyes and her pink cheeks, and Emily and Spencer both straightened in their seats as they looked up at them, but Morgan kept rolling. Aaron’s stern look crossed the room. Spencer pressed his mouth into a thin, sheepish line as he met Aaron’s eyes, and Aaron’s expression softened imperceptibly—in such a tiny, slight way that Spencer did not think anyone else could have noted it. Rossi tilted his head, looking over the four of them. “Do I even want to know?”

JJ shook her head. “No—No, you don’t.”

“You never explained that first joke to me—”

“Spence,  _ no, _ ” JJ insisted. “It will occur to you in a few minutes,  _ please _ don’t make one of us explain it.”

“I have no problem—”

“ _ Emily. _ ”

Rossi sat down across from Emily. “Well, hey, maybe I want to hear this joke.” Emily opened her mouth, and this time, JJ manually covered Emily’s mouth with her hand. 

JJ squealed and snatched her hand away. “She licked me!” 

“Ew,” Spencer said, his nose crinkling up. 

“You asked for it, kid,” Rossi thumbed through the file he had brought with him. JJ went to wipe her saliva-covered palm on Spencer’s pants, but Spencer saw her coming and dove sideways out of the chair, rolling almost into Morgan’s lap to evade her touch. “Hey, calm down!” Rossi interjected. “It’s just spit.” 

“Yeah, exactly! One milligram of oral biomass contains a  _ minimum _ of one hundred million potentially pathogenic microbes!” Spencer gulped from where he had landed on top of Morgan. His gaze darted up to Aaron, and to his surprise, Aaron had arched an eyebrow at him, as if in question, before he looked back down at the manila folder in his hands, pretending he had never acknowledged Spencer at all. 

“Yeah,” Morgan echoed, catching Spencer from falling onto the floor, “c’mon, JJ, you know he has a germ thing. It’s not like Emily has never licked you before.” Emily cackled, and JJ’s cheeks flushed red as a tomato, and she sank into her seat with humiliation. Morgan nudged Spencer back off of him, and Spencer sat beside JJ again. He reached into his pocket and uncapped the hand sanitizer he carried on him, squirted a generous amount into JJ’s palm, and she thanked him quietly and rubbed the sanitizer into her skin. 

Aaron cleared his throat. “Garcia called. Servers are still down at Quantico.”

“Yeah, we heard.” Morgan scooted his chair back from the conference table. Aaron was the only one who hadn’t sat down. “What are we going to do? We can’t chase down potential leads without access to those files from the police department in Nebraska.”

“Once upon a time,” Rossi mused, “there was no such thing as the internet, and we had to solve all of our cases without the aid of digital technologies. We managed then. We’ll get by now, too. Profiling was developed on taking the information you have.”

“Actually,” Spencer interjected, “the rate of capture for violent crime went up significantly after the methodology of the single profiler was combined into the BAU team, and then  _ exponentially _ after the invention of the internet and the addition of the FBI database servers and technical analysts like Garcia to navigate them to help compile evidence, and Garcia specifically has the highest success rate of all of the analysts in the bureau, so without her, we may be—”

“Reid, please,” Aaron said. “Let’s try to be optimistic and work with what we have. Atlanta PD is reaching out to the Nebraska station to see if they’re able to share their findings and photographs via email. Servers are supposed to be up later today, and that should shed some more light on this.” 

Morgan leaned back in his chair. “We still have more questions than answers,” he pointed out. “We don’t have a solid geographic profile—we’d need another crime to get a start on that. Right now, all we’ve got is the hotel.”

“Not true.” Spencer hopped up out of his chair and went to the board with the map. He popped the pin out of the board and picked up the compass, drawing an arc around the hotel, where the unsub had struck. “We also have the Thompson-Stark residence. He had to have gone there personally to deliver the note.” Spencer drew another circle around the residence where the note had been found. 

The two circles didn’t intersect at all. Emily arched an eyebrow. “So our comfort zone is, by the nature of a typical geographical profile, nonexistent.” 

Morgan crossed his arms. “Like I said. More questions than answers.” 

Rossi shook his head. “I really think we have to look at a stalker. A stalker wouldn’t have a comfort zone. He’s most comfortable operating wherever his victim is.” 

“But then how did Thompson come into play?” JJ asked.

“Easy. Victim of opportunity.” Rossi joined Spencer at the board. “Grant, the guy Thompson was supposed to meet—he lives here.” He dropped a pin on the map. “Now, from the Thompson residence to here, by foot—Reid, draw me the fastest path.” Spencer picked up his pencil and traced it. “It goes right behind the hotel. On the same block.”

“The note suggests Thompson was targeted,” Morgan countered.

“A psychosocial sadist would leave the note as an excitement piece to get a thrill. He could’ve found the address on Thompson’s license. That doesn’t change the intent of the original crime. Or, hell, it could even be a forensic countermeasure, trying to throw us off.”

Emily tilted her head. “Who would use that sophisticated of a forensic countermeasure?”

“Somebody who has been stalking a profiler for a hell of a long time,” Rossi said. 

Morgan rocked in the chair. It squeaked with each time he pitched forward. Spencer grimaced at the noise, but Morgan was preoccupied; he didn’t seem to notice. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Why would somebody wait until right now to come out of hiding, especially in this way? This killing tells us he was  _ enraged. _ This isn’t how a typical stalker would target a victim, especially for a first interaction. What could Reid have done to piss somebody off so much?”

Spencer looked at Aaron, quiet and pensive in the corner, his brow furrowed, his expression stern—stern and  _ haunted _ , haunted in a way Spencer didn’t like. He made eye contact with Spencer over the table, and for a moment, even his thoughtfulness faded, replaced by exhaustion, not the physical kind but the emotional kind. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and the emotional fatigue vanished, sooner than anyone else could’ve spotted it, Spencer suspected, because no one was paying heed to Aaron the way Spencer was. 

Emily tucked her tongue between her teeth. “Guys—what if we’ve got the wrong angle entirely?”

JJ faced her, holding her chin in her hand. “What are you thinking, Em?” 

“I know we’ve got two witnesses, but… what if the unsub’s a woman?” The five of them turned their gazes to her. “Any woman can augment her height with the right type of shoe. I’m as tall as Reid and Morgan in my platforms—and if she’s been watching long enough, she’d know to try to throw us off her track by tricking us into thinking she’s a man. Think about it. The artist angle, the brushes, that’s feminine. So is the blood. Most men would have inflicted more bloodshed, given that opportunity, but this person didn’t. Instead, they used it to instill fear. Women comprise a higher percentage of psychosocial sadists than almost any other category of psychopath.”

Spencer shook his head. “I heard his voice. It was a man. He talked to me.”

Morgan sucked on the inside of his cheek. “Hold up. I think Emily’s onto something.” He steepled his fingers. “Maybe he’s not a woman—I mean, I don’t think the two of you suddenly forgot how to recognize a woman when you see one. But…” He tilted his head. “Maybe this is an effeminate man. Maybe even an effeminate  _ gay _ man. Reid and I were just talking about that, Steven Fitzgerald, 2008.” 

“You think?” Emily asked. Morgan shrugged. “You’re right. It’s a possibility.” 

Detective Farraday entered the conference room, and they all looked at him. “Hey, we just got word back from Nebraska. They’re willing to work with us, but there’s a kink in the technology end of things.” He crossed his arms. “Guess they’re still caught in the twentieth century, because they don’t have a scanner or an email address. They have a fax. We don’t have a fax. If you can find somewhere with a fax machine—” 

Spencer perked up. “Almost all FedEx, UPS, Staples, and OfficeDepot stores in the US still have fax machines open to the public for a fee. The nearest FedEx is five point six miles away from here. The nearest UPS is seven point two miles—” JJ kicked him under the table, and he stopped rambling, shooting her a sheepish look. “I mean… I know where to go to get a fax.” 

Detective Farraday made an incredulous face, his lips parting to make some sharp remark, but before he uttered it, Aaron moved from the corner of the room, stepping into his line of sight between the detective and Spencer. His shoulders were tense, his jaw square, and the detective thought better of whatever he had intended to say to Spencer. “Sure,” he said, taking a step back to give Aaron a wide berth. “Just call the department with the fax number, and try to be discreet—we really don’t need anybody spying real crime scene photos in the middle of OfficeDepot. Could land the department in hot water.” He left the conference room. 

Aaron’s jaw relaxed. Emily rolled her eyes. “Hotch, you’ve  _ gotta  _ calm down.” Spencer pushed back from the table. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to FedEx. It’s the closest.”

“By yourself?” Emily countered. “I don’t think so.” 

Spencer’s brow furrowed at her concern. He was a grown man; he didn’t need a babysitter. Receiving a fax wasn’t exactly a suicide mission by any stretch of the imagination. “It only takes one person to work a fax machine.”

“It also only takes one person to grab you, saw off your head, and leave it in somebody’s hotel room. I’m coming with you. We can grab lunch.” Emily stood, and as Spencer walked past her, he eased his hand into her back pocket, taking the keys to her Suburban by the ring—

Emily whipped around, shoved him, and grabbed him by the ear, dragging him around by its auricle. “Ow, ow, ow, JJ! Hotch! Make her stop, I’m sorry!”

Rossi and Morgan chuckled. “Emily!” JJ admonished. “Let him go!”

“C’mon, kid,” Morgan said, “you had that coming.” 

“Get him, tiger.” Rossi pulled out his phone, and Spencer stammered out another apology, his cheeks flushing—he did  _ not _ want this moment on camera for all of them to remember, the first (and definitely the  _ only _ ) time he tried to pick Emily’s pocket which ended with her seizing him by his ear. 

Aaron was smirking, too, trying not to laugh as obviously as Rossi and Morgan but having not nearly the same level of concern as JJ, and Spencer shot him a pleading glance. After a moment of looking at Spencer, Aaron relented, “Prentiss, let him go. He learned his lesson.” 

Emily let go of his ear. “Damn right, he did.” She held open her palm, and Spencer rubbed at his ear, putting the keyring into her hand. Spencer flushed red as a tomato. “You alright?” Spencer mumbled in response, far more embarrassed than hurt. “And here I thought your pickpocketing skills were supposed to be  _ good. _ Keep practicing. When you snatch my keys, I’ll let you drive.”

“She’s lying!” JJ called after them as Emily ushered him out of the conference room. “She’ll never let you drive, don’t believe her!” Spencer trotted after Emily out of the room, still flushing red all the way to his ears. 

The cops in the station all turned to look at them as they walked through. Emily strode with confidence, her eyes straight ahead, just like Aaron did, keeping everything square in her shoulders and in her jaw. As one cop turned to whisper to another, she fixed him under her gaze, glowering and saying nothing, and he quieted. Spencer gulped.  _ I don’t know how they do it. _ Eye contact with strangers made him so  _ uncomfortable. _ He could handle it with his friends, with Aaron, but with these strange people, making eye contact with them made him blink and avoid and evade and fidget and stim. Emily and Aaron had no problem asserting themselves with these cops. Spencer was glad about that, because he undoubtedly would’ve tried to bend himself over backward to avoid confrontation if he didn’t have their support. 

Maybe not, though. He hadn’t had an issue at the last confrontation with the director, leaning forward in his seat, placing his arms on the desk, using everything he knew about human behavior—his heart was  _ thrashing _ in his chest, and he wanted to sit there and stim and hum and panic, but he couldn’t, so he locked his eyes on the director and spread his legs and his arms and owned the space allotted to him, he  _ took possession _ of this space that was his and defended his team.

He’d gone home nauseated and had eventually thrown up from the stress and spent the rest of the night with Cheryl, drinking green tea and petting her cat. But he’d managed it. He wondered if that was what everyone did,  _ managing _ those emotions when they didn’t know how to handle them and caved beneath them, or if some people genuinely had that kind of assertiveness come naturally to them. He couldn’t imagine Aaron being a blinker like him—Emily, either, he supposed. If Aaron or Emily were blinkers, they probably wouldn’t be alive anymore. 

But then, Spencer had been in some trying situations himself, and he’d always blinked and stimmed his way right through them to the end. 

Emily opened the door of the station for him, and they marched past a deputy smoking a cigarette out on the curb. Spencer’s nose crinkled at the scent of it, but he tried to ignore it and kept stride with her. She unlocked the Suburban. The lights blinked. “I hope you know which way we’re going.”

“Of course, you’ll make a left here, a right on Johnson, two miles straight, a left on Sycamore—” Emily shot him a pointed look, and he gulped. “Sorry, sorry, I’ll give you the directions when you ask for them—just please don’t grab my ear again.” 

Emily snorted and smiled. “I’m not going to grab your ear again. I didn’t actually hurt you, did I?” She climbed into the Suburban and cranked it. 

Spencer shook his head, climbing in after her. “Only my pride.” 

“Good. I don’t really care if you pick my pocket. I just like to show off to Morgan that I can tell when you’re doing it, and he can’t.” Spencer nodded. That made sense, he supposed; Emily and Morgan seemed to have a chronic competition of wanting to outdo one another, so Emily making a demonstration of being better than him didn’t surprise Spencer.  _ Wish I wasn’t dragged into the middle of it. _ He’d done that to himself, though. He’d invited in the chaos. “What made you brave enough to do it to Hotch?”

_ I know he wouldn’t hurt me to save his own life, and he makes me feel so safe that I don’t mind irritating him a little bit… _ Spencer couldn’t tell the truth. “I didn’t particularly want a sick man driving me around Atlanta around the time people are heading into work. His judgment was compromised, and he wouldn’t have let me drive, otherwise.” That was true, too, he supposed. He doubted very much that Aaron would’ve willingly relinquished the keys. 

“That’s true. Smart. Cool that you can do it to Hotch, too. I would’ve expected him to be on his toes a little bit more.”

Spencer shrugged. “How do you always know?” he asked.

“Interpol. Lots of spy techniques.” Spencer nodded. She had more specialized training. “With a little more practice, maybe you will figure out how to pick my pocket.” 

“Not if it’s going to get me dragged around by my ear every time.”

“I don’t make any promises.” Emily stopped at the parking lot. “Which way?” she asked him, and Spencer pointed to the left, and she obeyed. “So… have you worked out that joke yet?”

“No.”

“Is it driving you crazy?”

He inclined his eyebrows. “A little bit.”

Emily laughed. “Well, okay, I can explain it, but you can’t tell JJ I told you. She’ll swear I’m perverting you.” Spencer nodded his agreement. “So, vitamin D… Think of a word that refers to a certain set of genitalia that starts with the letter D.” Spencer’s eyes widened. “Get it?”

“I do get it. That’s pretty funny.”

“I thought so, too.” Emily gave him a placid hum. “Do you want me to ask how you are, or has everyone else already harassed you with that question enough?” 

Spencer shrugged. “I’m okay,” he said. She arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not… I could be a lot worse, all things considered. My head is still attached to my body, and I’m not sick anymore. Those are two pluses.”

“You were stuck in a hotel room with sick Hotch for days. That must’ve been downright unbearable,” Emily challenged, and she arched an eyebrow at him in return. “I bet you’re glad to be out of there.”

Spencer frowned. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “everybody keeps saying that, but… it wasn’t that bad. He let me smother him with relatively few complaints about the matter, and he was pretty nice… you know, nice for Hotch.” Emily looked skeptical.  _ Maybe I should stop trying to defend him. _ Clearly, his soft ways of defending Aaron’s conduct were too forward, still. Would it have been better for him to say Aaron was a complete ass to him the entire time? He wasn’t sure. They hadn’t talked about it. They’d only said that JJ had noticed Aaron being too nice to him, and they’d agreed they needed to tone it down. “Everyone looks at me like that’s unbelievable when I say that.”

Emily pursed her lips. “Well, it does sound a little unbelievable, you know. Most of us try to strangle you when you get too close to us with a blood pressure cuff.”

Spencer shook his head. “No, that’s just you, not everyone else.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean, though. Hotch doesn’t like to be suffocated. He’s a workaholic. We had a hard time convincing him to leave the police department. He went with you and buddied right up to let you play nurse on him?” 

Spencer shrugged. “He’s been really nice. Even before the, uh, you know… ever since he found me.”  _ I’m saying too much, am I saying too much?  _ He wondered these questions, but he didn’t have an answer, and he thought (hoped?) Emily would confront him if she suspected something rather than sneaking around behind his back and talking to JJ or, god forbid, Morgan about it. But if she did confront him, what would he say? They hadn’t even decided on anything yet. They hadn’t given their relationship a name. Aaron had left two hickeys on his body, but otherwise, their kisses were soft and their union tender. 

Her face softened a bit. “I’m glad he’s being good to you.” Her eyes darted up to the rearview mirror. “Did I miss my turn?”

“No, it’s another block yet.”

“Okay.” Emily turned when she reached it. “Can I ask you something?”

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth dried up. He drank from the cup of coffee he had brought with him and only managed to hum, “Mhm,” in response because anything else seemed enormous. 

“How long will I stay on this road?”

He choked. “Um, er—” His brain short-circuited, and it took him a moment to conjure the answer she desired. He had planned to answer an entirely different, more personal question, and refocusing his mind on the map of Atlanta proved difficult. Aaron’s hands dominated his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about them and the way they moved under Spencer’s hands, the way his fingers bent, the occasional snap and pop in his fractured carpals that had healed in a wonky way. “Five blocks, then right on Oak.” 

Emily nodded. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask you.” He made a quiet noise in return. “Why did you leave? JJ said you wouldn’t tell anyone until you were sure, but… why weren’t you sure?” 

_ Oh. _ It didn’t have anything to do with Aaron. Spencer almost wished it would have. He thought a question about Aaron might’ve been easier to answer. “I thought I needed to know someone else’s opinion to be sure… just in case I was wrong. I figured my mom and Gideon knew me best and could, you know… answer my questions.” He picked at his fingernails. “I think… maybe I did know for sure, and I wanted to ask for somebody’s opinion. Someone I trusted.” 

“You know where I live,” Emily pointed out. Spencer pressed his lips into a thin line and glanced down at the floorboards of the car. “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry.” He fidgeted with the hem on the seatbelt. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t—that wasn’t fair of me to say.” She cleared her throat. “But it wasn’t my decision—I hope you know that. By the time I was awake, you had already buried me, and if you hadn’t, or if I’d been in better condition, I  _ would’ve _ come back kicking and screaming. I wanted to, I tried to. JJ had to shut all of the electronics into the safe, because I kept trying to get to them to call someone. It was—It was  _ days _ before I resigned myself to it. I never would’ve chosen that. For me or for any of you.” 

Spencer tapped his toes on the floorboards and rubbed the hem of the seatbelt faster, fast enough that it warmed under his fingertips. “I’m sure it was the right decision…” Logically, he  _ knew _ that. Any of them knowing Emily’s status could have compromised her location and put her in mortal danger. “They had to protect you. I understand that.” He licked his lips. “I’m glad you’re here now… I’m really glad you’re not  _ actually _ dead.”

Emily snorted. “Well, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”

Spencer glanced over at her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“If your relationship with your mother is so bad… why’d you tell her you were back? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just let her keep believing you were dead?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, it would’ve been. I didn’t tell her. Hotch did… He thought he was doing the right thing, to be fair, but I’ve been dodging her phone calls and emails since he did it. You would think if I got one thing out of this, it would’ve been escaping her, but I guess I’m just not that lucky.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m going to be written out of the will, anyway, when she finds out about JJ.”

“You think?”

“That was what she always promised me, if I ever had a public relationship that would reflect poorly on her.”

Spencer frowned. “But… you’re forty-one years old. Aren’t you past the point of your relationships having any kind of bearing on her life?” If Emily were seventeen, Spencer could understand a politician wanting to avoid such scrutiny (though he could not grasp that desire to avoid scrutiny overwhelming a parent’s need to love and support their child), but Emily was well past the age of her relationships reflecting on Ambassador Prentiss’s existence. 

“Not as far as she is concerned. She is… She’s not a particularly nice person, to say the least.” Emily tapped her left foot on the floorboard of the car. “How did your mom take it?”

“She already knew.” 

“That’s good. I’m happy for you… You deserve that.” Emily shifted her jaw. “You know, I could’ve saved us all a lot of heartache if I had been true to myself when I was younger.” 

“I know,” Spencer said. “That was… I told my mom that.” Emily glanced sideways at him. “I write her a letter almost every day. She knows almost everything. I know I probably shouldn’t after Fisher King, but—I don’t really have anyone else, and she likes to read my letters.” There was Cheryl, but Spencer didn’t want Cheryl to know too much about his work life. 

Emily nodded slowly. “I’m glad you realize that—that being true to yourself is important. And that the world is a lot more than a hateful bastard leaving a head in your room. There are more Hotches in the world than there are unsubs.”

It took Spencer aback, that Emily chose to use Aaron as her example in that statement over anyone else. He had expressed that Aaron was nice to him, but he hadn’t expected her to read into it. Had she? Or was she merely taking things from the context of the conversation to phrase her next sentence, as one did? “I know,” Spencer said again. She patted his knee, and he liked it. 

Inside the FedEx, Emily called the Nebraska police department, and they faxed the crime scene photos and files over to the store. Spencer received them face down, not even looking at them himself, and tucked them into a manila folder under his arm, glancing over his shoulder just to ensure no one spied on them. Emily paid for the service, and back in the Suburban, Spencer opened the folder. 

“Yikes,” Emily said. Spencer didn’t say anything. The headless body of a young man, no older than Spencer, lay sprawled in an alley among broken glass and trash bags. The head was mounted, displayed, a few feet behind him. A design was painted on the wall under the head in blood, dripping down in streaks. Spencer gulped. Emily took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “We need to get this back to the team.” A slight tremor went through Spencer’s hand. “Hey… Hey, hey, look at me—what are you thinking?”

His mouth felt dry. He licked around in there to try to wet it, but his tongue had turned into a sponge. “I… I think I’m definitely being stalked.” There was no chance the same crime had happened in two places he had been within days of one another. 

“Do you recognize the painting?” Spencer shook his head. It was a simple design, a tree with blooms emerging from the branches. “Do you have any idea what it means?” Again, he shook his head. He didn’t have the first clue.

Emily took the photos and folded them back into the envelope. “You don’t need to stare at those. Okay?” She cranked the Suburban, and though he was tempted, Spencer did not open the folder again. He nodded to her.  _ He’s following me. _ Spencer’s stomach clenched. Aaron was right. He was being followed. Someone was  _ stalking _ him and was killing people to achieve it. Who else was in danger? His mom? Gideon? Aaron? JJ? Emily? Morgan? Rossi? Garcia? He wrung his sweaty hands and picked at his cuticles, biting at his lips, trying to peel that external layer of skin—his cuticles cracked and began to bleed. “Hey, Reid, stop it.” Emily took his hand. “Stop. You’re hurting yourself. You need to find another stim.” 

_ But I need to— _ She was right. Spencer sat on one hand and used the other to fondle the hem of the seatbelt again. He chewed the inside of his cheek—not less damaging, but at least less visible. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

The drive back to the police station was longer than the one there—not by minutes, just by  _ feeling, _ because each second that passed filled him with dread, and when they got out of the Suburban, Emily walked closer to him than before, like his shadow. The bell dinged as they entered the police department, and she made a beeline for the conference room. “No good news,” she said. She dropped the manila folder on the conference table, and all of the crime scene photos and the reports from the Nebraska police skidded out of it and arranged themselves in a horrifying mural.

Spencer’s stomach churned. He looked up at Aaron, whose pensive face evaluated the crime scene photos. His dark eyes found Spencer’s, and they betrayed nothing. Spencer longed to see  _ something, _ some emotion, inside of them, but Aaron’s thoughtful expression contained nothing identifiable—no fear, no sadness, no excitement. He wore a better poker face than Spencer could have dreamed. 

JJ put an arm around Spencer’s back. He flinched at the first touch, but then he turned his head and allowed an arm to embrace her in return. He could comfortably rest his head on top of hers, but he didn’t; he only allowed his nose to brush her hair so he could smell it, because she always smelled like green apple shampoo. Much like Aaron’s scent, JJ’s reminded him he was safe and loved. “You okay?” she whispered to him. He nodded. 

Morgan broke the silence at long last. “What the hell are we going to do now?” 

They had craved this information, expecting it would give them a lead—now they had it, and they had no idea what to do with it, had no idea where to start with it. Rossi picked up the photographs. “We’re going to use this to catch the bastard who did this. Then, we’re going to fly home and buy Reid a cake shaped like a penis.” He pinned the photographs on the board. 

Aaron cleared his throat. “We need to find out if this was the first killing. I’ll call Garcia and have her do a search—” The phone rang. The crease between Aaron’s eyebrows deepened as he answered it. “You’re on speaker, Garcia.”

“Do I have everyone?” 

There was no joke, no laughter, no teasing, no brightness. Chills trickled down Spencer’s spine at the sound. Garcia without her sunshine—she sounded fit for a funeral.  _ It may be my funeral. _ Spencer’s chest tightened. “Yes,” Aaron answered. “We’re all here.”

She cleared her throat. “Good. My servers just came back up, and I ran your MO, and… this is a lot worse than we thought it was. I’ve got crimes with decapitated male prostitutes found in almost every state. These crimes—they follow a pattern. They’ve appeared in cities where the BAU worked cases, after you left. Nobody picked up on it because the crimes crossed state lines, but I’ve got thirty-two files here that are matching. I haven’t sorted through all of them yet, so that number is still growing—”

Aaron closed his eyes. He set his jaw, and across the room, Spencer thought he could hear his teeth  _ click _ together. “When was the earliest?”

“February ninth, 2007—Atlanta suburbs. Where you are right now.” 

“Tobias Hankel,” Spencer whispered. It came back to him, to that first and most horrible experience. JJ squeezed him tightly around the middle. Spencer squeezed her back. 

Aaron made a gruff noise. “Send us the files on their cases, Garcia, all of the ones you suspect are connected. We’ll sort through them and decide how to proceed. And forward this information to Strauss, please.” 

“Are we going home?” Morgan asked.

“We may be able to access more centralized information out of DC,” Rossi pointed out. “If these cases are all over the country, we’re not going to be able to analyze crime scenes case by case.” 

Spencer watched as Aaron’s face shifted, shifted only minutely. “We’ll fly home tomorrow,” he decided. “Prentiss, you and Morgan go to the 2007 crime scene and see what you can recreate from the files. Rossi, take JJ and go by the field office to see if they have any additional information, and stop by the ME’s—that will probably be fruitless because of the fire that destroyed all of their records, but you may find someone who knows something. Reid and I will stay here and sort through paper documentation with the local police department. Thank you, Garcia.”

“I’ll hit you back when I have more.” The call ended, and the team collected their things and exited the conference room in a hushed, single file line, their personalities muted and dimmed by the threat toward one of their own. JJ grabbed Spencer’s hand and held it tight, and then she let go and followed Rossi from the room at his expectant look.

The conference room door slammed closed, then the door to the police station. The rest of the team had left. They were alone together, alone here—not truly in private, because an officer or the detective could walk in at any minute, but more alone than they had been since the morning. Spencer lowered his head. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Aaron’s quiet footsteps, almost inaudible, approached him, and his thumb caught the tear and wiped it away in the silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! School is picking up on my end and making it difficult for me to have time to write, but I'm trying my best.   
> Thank you for reading!

“Bodies lie in the bright grass, and some are murdered, and some are picnicking.” -Jenny Holzer

...

Aaron and Spencer sat back to back in the crowded, dusty, dark storage room, each with a box of files before them. “If you wouldn’t have pissed off the detective, he might’ve given us a cop to help us do this,” Spencer reminded Aaron, and Aaron bumped him in the back with his elbow, an irritated nudge. He thumbed through the case files. The number of crimes committed in Atlanta in the year 2007 surprised both of them—even Spencer, who logically knew the statistics, hadn’t quite fathomed what that kind of number looked like in file folders in crates. They were organized by surname, not by chronology (Spencer had a great objection to this organizational system, but Aaron had forbidden him from trying to fix it), so they both sorted through the hundreds of files, both under the surname  _ Doe _ (because the victim had been a John Doe for three months before being identified) and  _ Martinez _ (the victim’s eventual identity). 

“Have you found anything useful yet?” Aaron asked. Spencer shook his head, squinting down at the files. The yellow fluorescent lights of this ancient storage room buzzed incessantly and provided less help than a more modern bulb would have. “The lights are bothering you, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Spencer admitted. 

“Turn them off.” Aaron flicked on the flashlight on his phone. “It’s not like this will make it any slower.” Spencer reluctantly pushed himself up. His knee popped audibly and gave a dull ache, the way it did now when he rested with his legs in a certain bent position for too long, and he limped to the light switch and turned it off. “You alright?”

Spencer flicked on the flashlight on his phone. “Yeah,” he repeated, “I’m fine.” He returned to his place behind Aaron. They both folded at the waist to lean over the files before them on the floor, and Aaron reached behind him with his right hand—Spencer watched in the darkness, out of the corner of his eye, as the hand crawled across the low pile carpet with his long fingers like a spider’s legs. Aaron pawed around on the dirty floor, as if in search of something, before he found Spencer’s wrist and brushed his thumb down the inside of it. Spencer blinked in surprise, and he scooted his left hand back toward Aaron. Aaron opened his hand, palm up, and Spencer clasped his hand in Aaron’s. 

Spencer found it odd, how easily they did this, how readily they made this motion their own, and yet… he never wanted it to end. He much preferred touching Aaron and thumbing through files with one hand. The arches of their bent backs rested against one another. While Spencer mused through the files, he focused on the callouses on Aaron’s right hand, the places where his gun rested, the places where he picked and bit at his fingernails. Aaron was left-handed. Spencer found a world of difference between his right hand and his left hand. His left hand was soft and elegant when it clutched a pencil. His right hand was rougher, his working hand, with more scars on the knuckles and more crackles inside when the fingers bent toward his palm—he had injured this hand more grievously when bludgeoning Foyet. Spencer kept his bad leg stretched out in front of him and shifted the crate into his lap, and they continued to work in silence, gently clasping one another’s hands. 

As he encountered names he recognized, Spencer put files aside. The first, Aaron didn’t notice, but the second, he did, turning his head to look at the stack of two manila folders. “You’ve got something?” he asked.

Spencer shook his head. “No… Nothing new.” The silence prompted more from him, so he explained, “Dennis and Lacy Kyle… Helen Douglas and her handyman. I’m sure I’ll run into the files of Mike and Pam Hayes eventually. Just in case we decide we need to look at them.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Aaron said with a nod. “This does all seem to be tied to Hankel in some way. The graffiti and the first murder. Have you found a Martinez yet?”

“No. Not even one. Martinez is a fairly common surname; you’d think there’d be a decent number of files with that name.” Spencer licked his lips. “If the murder that occurred here was actually his first… do you think I met him here? All the way back then?”  _ Was I being stalked for five years without realizing it? _ Spencer’s stomach gave an uncomfortable, painful twist. He had helped so many victims of stalking in his career. Had he been one the whole time?

Aaron gave voice to what they both already knew. Hearing him say it both comforted and tormented Spencer. “It’s a good possibility. The first murder is usually the most significant in terms of MO and meaning to the unsub… you know that.” 

Spencer swallowed hard. “Yeah. I do.” 

Falling silent again, Aaron squeezed his hand. The files ruffled under their fingertips, and minutes bled into minutes. Their phones dinged on occasion with incoming text messages. Spencer ignored them; Aaron swiped them open, he saw in the reflection of his glasses, but if their contents were important, he didn’t say so, because he flipped his phone back around and continued using the flashlight on the papers before him. 

Inhaling deeply, Spencer smelled the ink and the sensation of paper beneath his fingertips. He rolled his fingers over the creases of the manila folders as he churned past them. Touching paper was sensory bliss, the way it smelled, the way it folded, the way it felt. True—a digital library would’ve made this task much easier for Garcia to navigate and find the information they needed in less than half the time. But this was cathartic for Spencer, a relief from the stress. Without the lights, the storage room was quiet except for the sounds of turning pages and Aaron’s breathing and the occasional noise from outside in the rest of the station. The rest of the station, the rest of the world, felt millions of miles away from Spencer right now. This room was dark, enclosed, safe, with the weight and warmth of Aaron’s hand against his and their backs pressed against one another’s. 

“I’m in Martinez.” 

“Yeah?” They both turned to face one another, Aaron pulling the crate between the two of them, and Spencer picked up a few files away from where Aaron’s fingers worked and flicked through the names. “Jose, Jose, Jose—got it.” Spencer plucked the file out of the crate.

Aaron’s face sank into a deep scowl. “Are we sure that’s the right victim?”

The file was  _ painfully _ thin. Spencer opened it. “There’s an ME report… yeah, this is our crime victim.” Only two sheets of paper met them, and Spencer glanced up at Aaron quizzically, his lips pursed in disbelief. “There are no photos here.” Spencer flipped over the ME report and the police report, as if expecting something else to materialize. “There is… There’s nothing here.” It seemed the police department had done absolutely nothing in the way of helping this victim. 

Aaron slipped the police report away from him. Spencer examined the ME report—blunt force trauma to the head, head severed postmortem. The victim, initially named John Doe, was in his mid- to late twenties, was Hispanic, had evidence of sexual assault or anal intercourse before his death, and had HPV and HIV. Eventually, the victim had been identified as Jose Martinez. His family had claimed his body after three months of resting in the freezers at the coroner’s office. 

“They didn’t do anything.” Though soft, Aaron’s voice betrayed his rage. “This is one of the most incomplete police reports I’ve ever seen. With no follow up. None whatsoever.” 

“Was there art at this one, too?” Spencer asked in a muted voice. 

Aaron sighed. “Yes. It’s described as  _ a doodle. _ Of what, we will never know.” Spencer glanced back at him. “I have encountered many cops who see killers of prostitutes, homeless people, and addicts as the cleansers of the city… yet I am always surprised.” 

“Really?” Spencer asked.

Aaron glanced back at him. “You aren’t?” 

Spencer frowned, thinking about it for a long moment, considering. “I guess not… I guess nothing really surprises me anymore.” Whatever last bits of  _ surprise _ living in his body had been snuffed out when Emily came back, and since then, whatever Spencer encountered was just another day in the life. He wasn’t surprised to figure out he was gay (though, granted, he didn’t think he was  _ supposed _ to be surprised at figuring out his own sexual orientation, especially at his age). Hell, he hadn’t even been too surprised that  _ Aaron _ returned his feelings, and the Spencer who had met Aaron at the age of nineteen most definitely would’ve been astonished by this development, to say the least. “Do you think that makes me jaded?”

Aaron shook his head, blowing a quiet puff of breath out his nose. “No. I think that means we’ve gone through way too much shit the past few years.” 

That was fair enough, Spencer thought. At this point, them being  _ surprised _ by anything would be optimistic at best. Spencer peered down at the police report in Aaron’s grasp, scanning it with his eyes—it took him exactly seven seconds to read every word on the page, every inconclusive fact, the doodle in blood (but not what the doodle was  _ of _ ), the mounted head, the location by street name but not by environment. Was the body discarded like trash or posed? Behind a dumpster or on a bench in broad daylight? The person who found the body was not on record, had not made a statement; even the 911 call, which Spencer assumed  _ had  _ to have been made after discovering a decapitated corpse, had not been placed in the police report. 

“Do you think this file ever got reopened after the initial report was printed?” Spencer asked, and Aaron shook his head. 

Sharp knuckles rapped quickly on the door, and Detective Farraday entered. “Whoa, boy, it’s dark in here.” He flicked on the lights. Spencer grimaced and winced, and they both climbed to their feet to greet him. “You guys know we have electricity, right? You don’t need to use your flashlights to look through our file cabinets.”

Aaron loured, but before he had the opportunity to say something abrasive in return, Spencer said, “The lights are loud. It’s easier for me to focus when they’re off.”

Detective Farraday looked up at the fluorescent yellow lights, back to Spencer, up to the lights again. “Loud?” he repeated incredulously. Spencer gave an awkward, lopsided smile, uncertain how to proceed at that confrontational note. “I didn’t know lights made noise, but okay.” 

“They do!” Spencer answered, perking up. “Lots of electronics make noises related to the electrical current flowing through them. It’s an anomaly referred to as a  _ mains hum. _ The sounds are usually pretty low on the spectrum of human hearing, so for the most part, only children and people with exceptionally good hearing or sensory processing issues will notice them. Magnetic fields cause accessories to vibrate, and then, magnetostriction happens, in which the core iron changes shape. This produces the high frequency hum you hear, or don’t hear, in electronics like these lights. But more modern electronics have taken steps to mitigate this sound, so theoretically, you could replace these bulbs with LEDs and it would be a lot quieter in here.” 

_ Usually, someone would’ve stopped me before I finished all of that. _ Spencer gave Aaron a sideways glance, and Aaron wore his usual stern expression, not making eye contact with Spencer. Detective Farraday cleared his throat. “So… how are things going with the files?” 

He didn’t say anything disparaging. Whatever Aaron had said to him—it had worked. He wasn’t about to cross Spencer outright now. Aaron explained, “We are looking at a crime from 2007. Jose Martinez. He was a prostitute found murdered days after we left here from the Tobias Hankel case… but this police report is incomplete.” 

“I told you guys, everything that’s in here is all we have. We haven’t had the time or the manpower to digitize this stuff yet, so it’s sitting back here collecting dust.”

Spencer interrupted, “But clearly this wasn’t protocol for a murder investigation at the time—see, here is the file from the murders of Dennis and Lacy Kyle. These murders were committed exactly a week and a day apart. This case file has two folders dedicated to all of the information collected, and Martinez’s only has two pieces of paper—incomplete.” 

Detective Farraday shrugged, nonplussed by their confrontation so far. “We were understaffed. The Hankel case took most of our manpower.”

Aaron, unlike Spencer, was more direct in his accusation. “So you think it’s acceptable for other crimes to go unsolved or even unexamined because of a case that had already been closed by the time this one was committed?” 

Detective Farraday’s brow furrowed. “Gentlemen, surely you realize these cases are of two different tiers. One is a well-to-do family in a suburban neighborhood with one whacky-ass 911 call to accompany. The other is a prostitute whose identity we didn’t even know until three months after his death. If we poured manpower into every prostitute who turns up dead or missing, I wouldn’t have enough guys to run patrols and hand out parking tickets. We don’t have the time or resources to waste on the dregs of society. Most of them put themselves in that position, anyway.” 

Aaron scowled, but Spencer interjected, “So, forgive me for asking this, but—how exactly does someone put  _ himself _ in a position to have his head cut off and mounted and a sketch made in his blood?” The detective’s face shifted, mirroring Aaron’s own distasteful picture, but Spencer pressed on. “I mean, considering that the human neck is filled with muscle and cartilage—it’s surprisingly difficult for a person to slit their own throat successfully. It’d be impossible, without some sort of rigged guillotine, for someone to sever their own head, much less mount it and paint in the blood postmortem, so I don’t exactly understand how Mr. Martinez put himself in the position to deserve this fate.” 

“Look, these people are the riffraff—they live on the edges—”

“Yeah, I know, you described them as the dregs of society already,” Spencer said, his voice becoming more curt. He kept blinking, not asserting himself with his posture or his behavior, and he subconsciously shuffled nearer to Aaron for a sense of security, but his mouth kept on moving. “I have to wonder, do you think that because of his race? Because he was a prostitute? Because he was HIV positive? Because he was gay? What exactly made him worth less than the Kyles? Because you called us here to aid on the crime with the Kyles less than a day after it was committed, citing bizarre violence and an MO you didn’t know how to handle, but I would think a decapitated head mounted on a wall and an art piece drawn in the victim’s blood would elicit  _ some _ level of concern from any decent police department.”

“A hooker gets murdered every day in this city, and more than that turn up dead.” 

Aaron arched an eyebrow. “So you’re saying there were more crimes like this one? That decapitated heads and blood art are just part of the scenery here in the Atlanta PD? That seems unlikely.” 

The detective glowered at Aaron and at Spencer. “You know what? If you’ve got a problem with the way this department runs, you can pack up your asses and go back to DC. We don’t have the manpower to cry over every slut that winds up with a needle in her arm or every faggot who gets himself tossed in a dumpster.” 

Aaron’s eyes flashed, and he advanced on the detective like a lion, a feral gleam in his eyes; Spencer resisted the urge to grab him by the elbow to keep him from throwing a punch. “This crime,” Aaron purred in a dangerously low voice, “was the first in a series of at least  _ thirty  _ murders where other innocent men were raped and decapitated. We will go back to DC tomorrow to continue working this crime, because it crosses state lines, which makes it federal jurisdiction. And we will arrest the man who did this. And if we find that your department did not put significant effort into solving this string of murders where it began, we can and will hold every officer in this building accountable for obstruction of justice. But—” He tilted his head. “I think, if I were you, I’d have a hard enough time going to sleep at night, knowing that thirty innocent people were dead because I didn’t think the first victim was worth looking into.” 

The detective stormed out of the room, turning the lights off behind him and slamming the door, leaving them in the darkness illuminated only by the flashlights still shining from their phones. Spencer glanced down at Aaron’s hands, balled up into fists now with a tremor pulsing through them. That happened now, he noticed, when Aaron was stressed or focusing intently on something; it aggravated the nerves in his hands and left them shaking and on edge. Spencer touched the back of his hand, brushing his fingers down the lines of the clumsily mended carpals. Aaron released a long pent-up breath. “It won’t do any good for you to hit him,” Spencer reminded him. 

“It would make me feel a lot better.” Aaron picked up one of the crates from the floor and shoved it back on the shelves where he had found it. 

Spencer’s brow quirked. “You know these types of crimes aren’t preventable. Nobody sees the signs. That’s—It would be atypical for anyone to look at a single crime, even one as violent as that, and suspect serial motivation. Especially against such a low-risk victim. I mean, no one missed this guy for three months to even bother to come identify him… You can’t blame the cops for not suspecting anything, given the last serial they handled was much higher profile.”

Aaron was brooding. “I know.” His words grated from him. 

“Then why are you so mad at him? This isn’t the first incomplete police report we’ve ever seen. Sometimes the police make mistakes. We’re here to help fix them.” 

“Someone should’ve seen this before it got to the point where you were in danger.”

Brow fuddling, Spencer tilted his head. “Is that what this is about?” he asked, softer now. “Because of me?” It didn’t seem fair; it seemed blown out of proportion, at least in his opinion, for Aaron to alienate the police department trying to help them on his account. “If I’m being stalked, that’s still not anyone’s fault. No one could’ve seen it until he wanted us to see it. Stalkers who follow victims in the long-term get really good at what they’re doing.”

“One of us should’ve seen it. I should’ve seen it.” 

Spencer sucked on his lower lip, but he suspected he would not change Aaron’s mind on this. “I think that’s an unrealistic expectation to put on yourself, or on anyone.” Was it disappointing? Certainly. Police departments across the country, one in every city where a murder had transpired, had brushed under the rug the violent murder of a young gay prostitute, because those people were, as Detective Farraday had so gracefully described,  _ the dregs of society. _ It was sad. But it was no one’s fault, and it certainly wasn’t Aaron’s. 

Of course, Spencer did not have the power to convince  _ Aaron _ of that, because Aaron had already lost everything to a stalker, so why would he be at all inclined to believe he didn’t have the responsibility to spot a stalker a second time around? Aaron’s hands had that tremble again, trembling against Spencer’s where he touched him. He balled them up into fists, but that made the quiver coursing through them more pronounced, so he relaxed them. Spencer glanced to the door of the storage room, the little window in it which allowed a view into the hallway, and he took Aaron gently by the hand and led him between the shelves which held the masses of crates holding masses of files, and Spencer tried not to think of how many of those cases in those files had gone unsolved because the police hadn’t bothered to try. Instead, he kept one eye to the window in the door, one eye protecting them, one eye prepared to drop away at a moment’s notice and create a ruse, and he folded his hands over Aaron’s and played with them.

It was quiet in the darkness, quiet except for Aaron’s breathing, more labored than usual, and Spencer continued to fold his fingers toward his palms and then allow them to relax over and over, feeling the crackling carpals beneath his touch. “It’s supposed to storm tomorrow,” Spencer said. Aaron didn’t answer. His breath relaxed to some degree, only minutely. “The barometric pressure will change.” A hum responded to him, nothing more than that. Spencer continued to slowly bend his fingers and release them over and over again. “Hot and cold therapy are useful when struggling with osteoarthritis. You used to use ice packs. I think it would be helpful to start that again.” 

Aaron watched him in the darkness, his warm, dark eyes glittering like rich, earthy soil. Aaron’s gaze nourished him, and beneath it, Spencer flourished, continuing to speak. “You stopped going to occupational therapy, too. That was because insurance stopped covering it, right?” Aaron barely inclined his head. “Insurance will only cover a certain number of appointments at physical or occupational therapy before they withdraw funding and force you to have surgery, instead. That was why I stopped going for my knee. Another surgery wouldn’t help me. My surgeon even said so. Strauss fought it, you know. She really pushed it. But ultimately, they overruled her. Insurance is funny like that. Somebody who isn’t a medical doctor and who doesn’t know you or your health personally is supposed to decide if you actually need a medication prescribed by a medical doctor who  _ does _ know you and your health personally? That’s always struck me as pretty bizarre.” 

Spencer held their hands flat, palm to palm, and Aaron remained silent, listening, allowing him to speak. “They say that capsaicin creams help, also. You can make those at home by yourself. Just cayenne powder and olive oil. I didn’t think it helped very much, but I think it’s supposed to be more effective on smaller joints.” He pushed his own fingers forward, one by one, and with the motion, pushed Aaron’s fingers back, ceasing when he met resistance. If it hurt, Aaron didn’t say so. “Plus, it was sensory hell. Super greasy. I hate lotions like that. Sunscreen, too. JJ always has to nag me into putting on sunscreen. I’d rather have the burn most of the time.” He was going to keep talking until Aaron stopped listening or interrupted him, whichever came first. “You could start splinting again, but I know you would be pretty opposed to that.” 

Aaron wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead at the floor, and Spencer wanted to ask,  _ A penny for your thoughts? _ but he didn’t, because he knew Aaron’s drive to be private would always overwhelm any request of his. Instead, Spencer gently changed the subject. “You didn’t stop me from lecturing him about the mains hum.” Aaron’s obsidian eyes darted back up to his, almost surprised by this assertion. “I mean, usually you would’ve told me to stop. Or someone would have. Because it wasn’t relevant, and we were looking for information on the case and wasting time. I am fairly self-aware, you know. I just have trouble sticking a filter on it when I need to, or sometimes I can’t tell what information is pertinent and what isn’t, so I dump everything and leave it to the rest of you to suss out what matters—but I knew that the mains hum wasn’t helping us. So why didn’t you stop me?”

Aaron’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he inclined his eyebrows, making something that was almost but not quite a smile. “He thinks you’re an annoying bastard, and now he’s too afraid of me to stop you. I thought I didn’t mind you prolonging his torment.” Spencer pursed his lips. “Sorry for using you as a weapon.”

“No, I—I don’t mind. I mean, I wish you didn’t have to bully people to make them listen to me, but I’d be more than happy to talk to anyone you don’t like as a form of punishment. It will be nothing but entertaining for me.”

Aaron smiled. It was real this time, real in spite of sadness pulling at the corners of his lips and haunting his eyes. “So the next time Morgan and Prentiss are driving me up the wall?” He touched Spencer’s chin with his thumb, tilting it upward. 

Spencer arched an eyebrow. “I can handle Morgan, but Prentiss already almost pulled off my ear once today, so she may be better suited to another form of persecution. I prefer my ears attached to my body.” 

Aaron gazed at him, not at his eyes, but at his mouth. Spencer licked his lips nervously. “You were foolish to try to pick her pocket.”

“I was brash,” Spencer agreed.

“Did you expect it to work?”

“It worked on you.”

“Yes.” Aaron’s voice dropped, low, so low that chills tingled down Spencer’s neck and rippled down his spine, so low that his belly flipped with warmth and cold at the same time. Aaron’s hand unfurled, his thumb sliding back under the hinge of Spencer’s jaw, tilting his head up. His index finger rested just over Spencer’s pulse point, his carotid  _ throbbing _ and  _ lashing _ in excitement at this touch. His other three fingers grazed down Spencer’s neck, just ghosting there. Goosebumps erupted in their wake. “It did work on me… Are you surprised?”

Spencer’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t speak. He shook his head, though, a minute jerk. Aaron’s smile widened more, almost imperceptible in the darkness, but it stood out to Spencer because in this moment, nothing mattered to Spencer except Aaron in these shadows, Aaron’s hand on his neck, Aaron’s smile, the gleam in his eyes, the scent of the cologne wafting from him. “Because nothing surprises you anymore,” Aaron recalled aloud, and then he kissed Spencer. 

Spencer gasped for breath in the kiss, sinking into it. His arms reached earnestly for Aaron and coiled around his neck, dragging himself into this kiss, and Aaron collected him in his arms. It wasn’t that Aaron wasn’t tender anymore—he still was gentle, still would do nothing without Spencer’s explicit permission, but his whole hot body basked heat into Spencer’s through his sweater vest and his shirt and his undershirt, all of these layers. The layers meant nothing to Aaron and his immense strength holding Spencer in this kiss. Spencer opened his mouth, panting his breath across Aaron’s face, and Aaron pressed his tongue into Spencer’s mouth. 

A breathy moan brushed from Spencer’s mouth into Aaron’s, quietly absorbed into Aaron’s teeth and tongue. One of Aaron’s hands tangled in his hair and guided his head the direction he wanted it to go, and Spencer turned to putty in his grasp, allowing Aaron to do as he pleased. 

A flicker of movement appeared at the window. “Stop—” Spencer and Aaron recoiled apart, and Spencer slipped over the files of the Kyles, the Hayeses, Helen Douglas and her handyman. The papers sprayed everywhere, and he dropped to his knees to pick them up as the door swung open. 

The lights did not turn on. “You guys alright in here?” JJ called. “Spence?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just tripped and dropped all of these files.” Spencer anxiously tucked everything back in the files where it belonged. 

“Okay, glad to hear it. I was more referring to the fact that Detective Farraday just told us we need to take down our board in the conference room and are no longer welcome at his precinct. Somebody want to explain that, or are we left to guess?” JJ crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. In the darkness of the room, she could not make out Spencer’s blush—he was incredibly glad of that—and he looked back pointedly at Aaron so JJ’s attention would fall to him and get Spencer out of the spotlight. After all, Aaron was better at masking all of this than Spencer was. “Hotch?” 

“We had a curt exchange of words over the lack of evidence collected in the Martinez case. Nothing out of line was said. Some people can’t handle being called out on a mistake, especially when that mistake led to the killings of several other people.” Aaron tucked the Martinez file under his arm and adjusted his tie—Spencer hadn’t realized it, but he’d tugged it askew. “Did Prentiss and Morgan find anything conclusive at the crime scene?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. The alley that was there five years ago has been built over, and it’s a wall now. Garcia couldn’t access any crime scene photos in the database. They thought maybe you could forward some their way.”

“There aren’t any,” Spencer said, standing and resisting the urge to play with his own tie nervously. He didn’t shift his jaw and took slow, deep breaths, stimming on the hem of the pockets of his pants. “The police didn’t take any crime scene photos in 2007. No pictures of the body—only an incomplete police report and an ME report for a John Doe, before he was identified. They didn’t check the scene for prints or collect any evidence.”

JJ’s eyes widened. “Okay,” she agreed, a little more slowly now, “I’m beginning to see why some choice words were exchanged with him.” She rocked back on her heels, crossing her arms. “The ME didn’t have anything for us. The records were destroyed in that fire that killed the last medical examiner. No one knows anything, as far as we can tell. We’re drawing up blanks, and the detective wants us out of here as soon as possible.” She flicked on the lights in the room. “Take pictures of those files. I’m not even sure they’ll let us use their copy machine right now.” 

Aaron cleared his throat. “Right.” JJ left the storage room. Aaron nodded to Spencer. “Go, go with her. Help everyone pick up. We’ll debrief in the lobby of the hotel.” Spencer turned to leave. “Wait.” Aaron went after him, and he straightened Spencer’s tie, too, and he tucked a lock behind his ear. “There. Now go.” Spencer raised his eyebrows and smiled, and Aaron’s eyes glowed in return, but he didn’t smile, and something dark and sad haunted the undersides of his eyes, caught up in the shadows of the wrinkles of his face. It was exhaustion, exhaustion from everything that had happened since they had arrived, and fear, and concern, and anxiety, and something else Spencer couldn’t quite put his finger on—a certain fondness, perhaps? He wouldn’t call it that. 

The team collected their things, and they went back to the hotel and debriefed quietly in the lobby, voices hushed so no one would overhear their clandestine exchange. It all pointed to nothing conclusive and everything fuddled, and the rest of the team headed out to dinner. “Spence,” JJ called, “you coming?” But Aaron was staying behind, picking things up and organizing them for their trip back to DC tomorrow, and that darkness clung to his expression, and Spencer had to know he was okay. 

After all, Aaron wasn’t the only one who could worry. 

“No, I’m not really hungry. We’ve still got some oatmeal in the room.”

She frowned. “Okay, then, if you’re sure. I’ll bring you both back something.” She trotted to catch up with the other three, and Spencer went to Aaron’s side, picking up things from the coffee table with him. 

Aaron’s eyes subtly darted around the room. When he noted its emptiness, he murmured, “They’re going to think something’s up.”

“I don’t care right now.” Spencer kept his gaze down to the floor while he collected the files. “What’s the matter with you?” 

“Nothing.” A firm, straightforward refusal: Aaron was not going to tell Spencer anything. Spencer supposed he wasn’t surprised. He wanted to know what was bothering him, but if Aaron wouldn’t say, Spencer wouldn’t try to profile him. “Did you check the other case files Garcia forwarded in relation?”

“Yeah. The number’s up to forty-four.” Aaron made a noise in the back of his throat. “Is that what this is about?”

No response. Silence stretched for a moment, and then he said, “You’re staying with Morgan when we get back.”

No question, no discussion; Aaron was using his  _ Hotch _ voice, and he had just given an order to one of his agents, an instruction which he intended on being followed, a directive. This was not something he discussed with his romantic partner and sought compromise. This was an imperative. He would not waver from it. Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t order me to sleep somewhere. I’m going to stay in my apartment. In my own bed.” He wasn’t afraid of Aaron. (Maybe he was a little afraid of Hotch, but he ignored the tiny voice in his head telling him that.) 

“We’re not talking about this.” 

“You’re right. We’re not. You’ve got a lot of feelings going on right now, and you need to process them instead of condemning me to sleep on Morgan’s uncomfortable, sticky leather couch for the foreseeable future.” 

“I don’t need to process  _ shit. _ ” Aaron didn’t raise his voice, but the bite to his words took Spencer aback, and from the astonished blinking on Aaron’s face, it shocked him, as well. “Sorry.” He stacked the files on top of each other and headed for the stairs, and Spencer followed him without saying anything. Spencer listened to his heavy, agitated breathing as he climbed the staircase. Sweat formed on his neck. Spencer wanted to touch him, but he didn’t want to upset him more. 

Aaron swiped the key card to their hotel room, and it opened, and Spencer closed the door behind them and double locked it. Spencer turned his back to Aaron and slipped off his sweater vest and his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt, sliding his belt from his pants and removing his shoes. He packed everything up into his suitcase in preparation for the trip tomorrow. 

“Have you heard from Gideon?”

It seemed they were changing subjects without any resolve to the last conversation. It bothered Spencer a little, but he ignored it. He didn’t want to poke the bear. “He texted me. I haven’t texted him back yet. I don’t even know what to say to him. I’ll just worry him.”

“He offered to come here.”

Spencer grimaced. “Yeah. I know. He offered to go back to DC, too.” 

“Maybe you should take him up on it.”

_ So maybe we haven’t changed the subject. _ “I’m not going to make Gideon sleep on my couch until I feel safe enough to live alone, Aaron. I’m a grown man.” Spencer sat on the bed and shot Aaron a look—Aaron paced back and forth across the floor. He had shed his suit coat and his tie, and he stared at the floor. “I’m  _ fine. _ My building has good security.”

“Really? I walked through the front door and asked your neighbor where you were and she let me into your apartment.” 

“Then I’ll tell her not to speak to anyone she doesn’t recognize and if anyone asks, tell them she doesn’t know who I am. She’s ninety-one, so it’s not like it’s that far from the truth.” Aaron scowled. “I know you’re upset, but getting bent out of shape isn’t going to make me any safer.” 

“There are forty-four men with their heads chopped off of their bodies strewn around this country in pursuit of  _ you,  _ and you don’t seem to be very concerned about becoming the forty-fifth!” 

“I am concerned. I’m terrified. You think I’m not scared?” Spencer repeated incredulously, looking up at him from the bed. “I happen to like my head being attached to my body.” He crossed his arms. Aaron’s scowl didn’t fade. “But I’m not going to do any good on this case, or any other case, if I’m not sleeping, listening to Morgan’s gross dog snore all over the floor from his squeaky couch. We don’t have any leads.”

Aaron huffed. “I know that.”

Spencer’s frown deepened. “We may never catch this guy. We’re going to have to learn to live with that.” Aaron’s shoulders tensed. He was furious—furious in the way a terrified dog bit an extended hand or tried to chew itself free from the catch pole. This man had come into their hotel room, and he had stolen Spencer’s glasses, but more importantly, he had stolen Aaron’s peace of mind. “I can do that,” Spencer added, a little softer. “Can you?” 

Aaron gathered up some things from his suitcase. “No.” He went into the bathroom, first slamming the door, then opening it again a crack so he could see out. 

Spencer sighed, closing his eyes tightly.  _ He’s hurting, and I can’t fix it. _ The helplessness overwhelmed him. Nothing he could do would make Aaron feel better, because the anxiety didn’t come from Spencer; it came from inside of Aaron, from everything in the past two years rearing its ugly head and gnashing its teeth at him. Spencer checked his phone. 

🌞JJ🌞:  _ What’s the matter? Why didn’t you guys come to dinner with us? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Hotch is really upset.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Why?  _

📕Spence📘:  _ I think he’s more or less resigned himself to my inevitable death at the hands of a homicidal maniac and is giving himself a stress ulcer in an effort to prevent it. I thought I could make it better but I think I just made it worse.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ You know this has got to be upsetting for him, Spence _

📕Spence📘:  _ I know. He wasn’t exactly willing to talk about it. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Would you expect him to be? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Probably not. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ He’s hurting a lot. He cares about you. He thought he was going to watch you die once and now he’s facing that it could happen again.  _

📕Spence📘:  _ I know all of that.  _

📕Spence📘: _ If I tell you something, will you promise never to tell anyone else? And I mean no one, ever. Including Emily. If Hotch found out I told, he would strangle anyone in the immediate vicinity. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ I’m a good secretkeeper. _

📕Spence📘:  _ He had a panic attack last night. He woke up from a nightmare and he couldn’t stop shaking. It was scary. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Em said she thought she heard someone crying. She thought it was you. Jesus Christ, Spence. You have to try to get him to talk about his feelings or something. If this is triggering him that much, it’s impairing his judgment with this case. You know that’s why he’s been so aggressive with the detective. He got us thrown out of a police station! We can’t be breaking up our rapports with police like that. Especially in an area like Atlanta. There’s lots of crime here. If they need us again, they may not want to call us back, and more people could suffer because of it.  _

📕Spence📘:  _ It’s Hotch. Do you really think he’ll talk about his feelings to anyone?  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ If he’ll talk about them to anyone, it’s to you.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Where are you going to stay when we get back to DC? _

📕Spence📘:  _ Now you sound like Hotch. I’m going back to my apartment. We don’t have any leads. I don’t want to sleep on Morgan’s couch for the indefinite future.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Do you really think that’s safe? You should stay with us at least. We have an extra room. Rossi has tons of extra rooms.  _

📕Spence📘:  _ I’m going to stay in my own home. Where I pay rent and utilities, like an adult. I’m going to sleep in the bed I bought under my weighted blanket and I’m going to be fine.  _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ No wonder Hotch is about to have an aneurysm. We’re all going to need a handful of Valium if we send you off by yourself while this guy is still out there.  _

📕Spence📘: _ We may never catch him. We have no leads. _

🌞JJ🌞:  _ Hotch will come up with something.  _

📕Spence📘: _ Yeah, I know he will. _

Spencer didn’t look forward to it, the promise of Aaron  _ coming up with something _ to give them more headway in the case. Maybe more cognitive interviews; maybe something else. He was tired, too tired to shower, so while Aaron was in the bathroom, he got up and changed into his flannel pajamas and settled back down on the bed. He plugged in his phone and silenced it. JJ had promised to bring dinner when they returned, but he wasn’t hungry. 

The sun set, streaming in less and less light through the window. Spencer didn’t reach to turn on the lamp. He allowed the darkness to consume the room. When Aaron turned off the bathroom light and made his way to the bed, he patted his way across the mattress, careful not to flop down on top of Spencer. He lay beside him, and Spencer curled up into his open embrace, offered as an invitation. 

Spencer draped his weight over Aaron’s body like he had the night before. Aaron wrapped his arms around Spencer and peppered light, affectionate kisses against the inside of his neck. “I’m sorry you’re scared,” Spencer whispered. 

The arms around him tightened, almost a vice, pinning Spencer there—not that he would have gone anywhere, but Aaron’s strong arms held him exactly in place. Minutes passed in the heavy silence. The room grew steadily darker and darker until Spencer could make out nothing but the outline of Aaron’s face and body. 

How much time had passed in the silence before Aaron finally spoke, Spencer didn’t know. At least half an hour. Maybe a whole. Spencer didn’t mind silence, and he appreciated not having to make small talk, but now, Aaron spoke in one of the smallest voices Spencer had ever heard him produce, and he listened. He wouldn’t miss a word. He wouldn’t forget a millisecond of this exchange. “When I close my eyes,” Aaron whispered, breathing his words into Spencer’s neck, “I see him standing over you again.” 

His breath came unevenly. Spencer cupped the side of his face with one hand, trying to ground Aaron in the moment, trying to keep him from sinking too deeply into those terrifying events of his past. He turned his head and nuzzled into Spencer’s hand, a nonverbal communication:  _ I’m here with you. _ Aaron knew where he was, and he wanted to tell Spencer anyway. 

“And sometimes… he looks at me, and he takes off his mask, and Foyet is underneath.”

Spencer wasn’t surprised, not really. But he didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything  _ to _ say. Aaron was afraid, and he had a right to be. Spencer tangled his fingers in Aaron’s hair and kissed him hard. He hoped that was enough. 


	17. Chapter 17

“The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.’” -Andrea Gibson

…

The quiet in the jet echoed around them, nothing but the hum of the motors and the occasional mutter from the cluster of agents playing poker on the other end of the cabin. Spencer, Prentiss, JJ, and Morgan sat around the table with four seats, pretzels divvied up between them as they placed their bets on their cards. Aaron glanced up at them every once in awhile, catching a glimpse of Spencer’s carefully harnessed poker face. After all these years, he still couldn’t find any  _ tells _ on Spencer during poker, any evidence that pointed to if he had a good hand or a bad one. He couldn’t find a  _ tell _ on Prentiss, either. Morgan always chewed the inside of his cheek if he had a bad hand. JJ would twirl her hair and look to the left if she had a good one. Rossi would stomp his right foot in mild frustration if he pulled a bad one. Spencer and Prentiss had no giveaways, and one of the two of them always won.

He admired the way the yellow cabin light caught Spencer’s face and lilted over it through his glossy, tangled, wavy hair. Aaron had combed his hair for him this morning. It seemed like years ago to consider it now, but only a few hours had passed since those sacred, quiet moments. Spencer glanced up at him.  _ I’ve been staring too long. _ Aaron pulled away from the eye contact and gazed down at the carpeted floor of the plane instead. He had only stolen glances until now, afraid to do much more than that. He couldn’t allow himself to show everything on his sleeve. He needed no one to know what they were doing here.  _ Especially not Morgan. _

Prentiss kept looking at him—had, ever since yesterday. Him, specifically, with a quizzical tilt to her head and an analytical look on her face, and when he looked at her with his stern glower to try to get her to knock it off, she held her eye contact with him, their eyes locking together, boring into one another, until they mutually caved and looked away. He wondered what that was about—Spencer, or something else.  _ Something else, _ he both thought and hoped. Spencer wouldn’t have  _ told _ Prentiss (he would almost certainly tell JJ first, and even then, Aaron doubted he would tell her without letting him know beforehand), and if someone were going to figure it out without a clue, Aaron didn’t think Prentiss would be the first to know. She was probably irked that he’d gotten them kicked out of the Atlanta police department. 

He was irked at himself for that, too. 

Crossing his arms, he stared down at the floor. He had brought a book, but whenever he opened it up, his eyes began to wander, and he could not focus on it. How could he? Real life had become so much more pressing, so much more interesting, in the past few days. The book was open, face down, on the table before him, marking the page where he had stopped. 

Quiet footsteps approached. Aaron lazily lifted his head from where his gaze had bored into the carpet and met Rossi’s eyes. Rossi sat across from him and pushed a cup of coffee toward him. “You haven’t had very much of your usual black today.” Aaron thanked him, inclining his eyebrows as he accepted the cup of coffee—much more, he suspected, than a cup of coffee, but an olive branch, a bargaining tool, something Rossi intended to use to open conversation with him about something. Aaron assumed it would work, at least to some degree. Remaining a closed book to Rossi never seemed to do anyone any good. Rossi always got what he wanted. It was better to be honest than it was to try to avoid the truth and have Rossi start guessing, or worse, profiling. Aaron had better things to do than lose all of his dignity right here, right now on the jet. He much preferred divulging what he wanted to Rossi over any other alternative. 

Unsurprisingly, Rossi sat across from him at the table, nursing his own cup of coffee. “So,” he said, drinking from it and then putting it down on the table to look at him, “are you going to explain why you harassed Detective Farraday to the point of him banishing us from the Atlanta police department for the rest of time, or am I left to wager a guess?” 

Aaron shifted his jaw.  _ Of course. _ Rossi couldn’t want to talk about anything else. Aaron was ordinarily so put together. When he suffered a lapse in judgment, everyone wanted to share their thoughts on the matter. “I was frustrated and suffered a lapse in judgment. It’s not like that has never happened before… to me or to anyone else.” Hell, Rossi himself was notable for his routine misjudgments. He wasn’t in any position to judge Aaron for it. 

“None of us have ever done it so badly that it cost us a professional relationship.” Rossi arched an eyebrow at him as if in challenge. “That’s Atlanta. Lots of crime, as I’m sure you’re well aware, and now if they need us again, the chances that they’ll call before the victims are piling up are incredibly slim. You knew better.” 

“Yes, I did, and I apologize. Is that what you would like to hear?”

“I’m sure that’s what  _ Strauss _ is going to want to hear, but I have no interest in your apologies. It doesn’t matter to me that we work in Atlanta. The place is kind of a dump.” Rossi crossed his legs. “But since you apparently have no idea what I would like to hear in this conversation, I suppose I’ll save us both the time and just say it.”  _ Yes, that is preferable. _ Aaron looked at Rossi expectantly. He figured he would hear some other criticism of his conduct on this case—and in a way, it was, but not in the way he anticipated. “You’re taking this case way too personally, Aaron.” 

He bristled. Rossi blinked—it was visible, his visceral reaction to the accusation, the same accusation Spencer had placed upon him yesterday. “I’m not taking it too personally.” He kept his voice carefully slow, neutral, like he spoke about the weather or any other case, though he held Rossi’s gaze firmly over the table. Aaron steepled his fingers. His hands ached. Spencer had been right yesterday; today, the clouds gathered thick and heavy over the horizons and crackled with lightning and thunder, and his arthritis pulsed because of it. Leaving them still hurt, but so did most movements. 

The things Spencer had done yesterday, though, those had helped. Aaron didn’t have an eidetic memory, but he tried to recall the way Spencer had done it. He unfurled his fingers where he sat at the table and pressed them into the grain of the wood. “You got us kicked out of a police station. You know that kind of conduct is unacceptable. You’re the one who wrote the damn book on how to get along with combative cops—You did nothing this whole case but inflame the situation at every turn.” Aaron’s frown deepened. Rossi had a good bit of nerve—but then, Aaron respected him a great deal and honored his expertise, though he usually didn’t bother criticizing Aaron’s conduct.

“I yelled at him once and said something out of line about  _ Reid. _ Reid wasn’t upset. If anyone else got twisted over it, it’s on them.” Palms flat against the wooden table, Aaron lifted one finger toward the ceiling, as far back as it would go, to try to alleviate some of the pressure in his aching hands. 

“You intimidated him. You got in his space. Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing.”  _ Oh, I knew what I was doing. _ He’d known the first time, when he yelled at the detective, when he approached him and leaned toward him and kept his shoulders square and his face set and drew in just a little  _ too _ close for comfort so the detective would realize how big he was and how hard he could throw a punch if it was warranted (now, he thought any punch throwing would’ve been warranted, but it was too late, given the plane had taken off). 

“I can’t have cops in the field harassing my agents while they’re trying to work. Especially after something like that happened to Reid. It would’ve been completely unfair for no one to come to his defense.” 

“And there  _ was _ an appropriate way to do that. Looming over the detective like a dark cloud of death wasn’t it. It made him feel threatened and emasculated. And we saw yesterday morning, when he acted like he was going to call Reid a name again. You got too close. You put yourself between them. We all saw that.” 

Aaron set his jaw. Apparently he wasn’t being as opaque as he thought. “I was not going to tolerate someone slandering Reid right in front of me. Especially to his face.”

“Why not? We all make fun of Reid. All the time. This is different, and you know it.” Aaron’s stomach and heart quivered in different rates like a buzzing of bees and butterflies thrashing about inside of him. He continued to slowly raise and lower his fingers from the table. The pressure ached, the feeling like he needed to crack his knuckles, but he couldn’t crack his knuckles anymore without a  _ lot _ of pain. “It’s pretty clear to me what this is about.” 

_ Oh, fuck. _ Aaron did not want Rossi to confront him right now on this plane with Morgan only a few plane seats away and nowhere for him to go to escape. Hell, if Morgan came swinging at him now, there was a possibility he’d fling himself from the aircraft—it’d be a less painful death. “Is that so?” he asked in a flat, clinical voice, hoping Rossi would either change his mind about his assumption or at least change his mind about stating it here. 

Rossi tilted his head. “You have to learn how to separate this case from what happened to Haley. Preferably  _ before _ it costs us the whole case.” 

Aaron hadn’t anticipated those words at all, but he supposed he should have. It was the much  _ more _ obvious elephant in the room. Aaron felt like he was trapped in a goddamn pinball machine, and it was all he could do to keep from being putted back and forth between his anxiety, his affection, his terror, his nightmares, his lust, the pain in his  _ hands— _ He flattened all of his digits to the table again and then slowly bent them toward his palms. “I’m fine, Dave,” he reassured. 

Rossi remained skeptical. “What are you intending to do?”

Aaron raised his eyebrows and allowed his eyes to flick up to the ceiling of the plane. “Well, I’m not putting him in WITSEC, that’s for damn sure.”

“I don’t think any of us were suggesting that you should.”

“What else would a responsible person do?” WITSEC was supposed to be their safe space. It was supposed to exist so he could forward witnesses and people in danger to them and trust they would be kept safe and alive until the people following them were apprehended. Clearly, there was a leak somewhere. They had never figured out  _ where. _ (Aaron had asked Garcia to stop looking just so she would stop bringing it up, because it was difficult enough to know Haley was gone without Garcia trying to pin it on a certain area of the bureau—Aaron didn’t want to blame someone, he wanted his wife back and he wanted Sam to go home to his kids and he wanted to go back in time and make a deal. Now, Aaron regretted that he had asked her to stop. He never would have predicted this would happen to them again.) But the leak existed. The leak had gotten Sam and Haley killed. Who knew who else? He was not privy to the information within WITSEC, but surely more witnesses and their guardians had been lost through someone’s irresponsibility. 

Rossi looked back at him steadily. “Keep a cool head and catch the guy before he has a chance to hurt anyone else.” 

Aaron massaged the backs of his hands. Nothing was helping. However Spencer had done it, Aaron couldn’t quite replicate it by himself, and the dull ache became more piercing the more he focused on it. “Easier said than done.” From over Rossi’s shoulder, Aaron watched as Spencer said something to the other three, and he pulled back from the table of four, vacating his seat. The table was empty of pretzels; it appeared they had rounded up their game and Spencer had taken the opportunity to excuse himself from it. He headed toward the bathroom of the jet, disappearing from sight, and Aaron’s gaze wanted to linger upon his absence, the place his form had vanished, and wait for him to reappear. He didn’t. Only because he wouldn’t allow such behavior from himself. 

Morgan turned around in his seat to face them. “Hey, Rossi, let us deal you in. Reid’s out, he’s getting a headache.” He patted the place beside him. 

Rossi looked at Aaron. “Would you rather?” he asked, and Aaron shook his head, nodding for him to take the seat. Aaron didn’t have emotional energy for very much right now. He couldn’t imagine trying to play poker with all of the thoughts going through his head, and the barometric pressure changes with the weather plus the altitude hurt his hands so much that he doubted he could comfortably hold a hand of cards. Rossi took the place Spencer had left behind, and the game resumed.

The toilet flushed, the sink running. The sink always ran for nearly a full minute after Reid used the bathroom, and then he would come out and sanitize his hands anyway. Just as he predicted, Spencer came out of the bathroom and sanitized his hands with the travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer he kept in his pocket. He carried a handful of dry paper towels with him. He stopped at the minifridge and opened it, and then he removed two ice packs from it, carefully wrapping each of them in the paper towels. 

The thin carpet muffled his soft footfalls. The rest of the team hadn’t noticed his actions, too absorbed in their snack poker, so Aaron didn’t bother looking disinterested. His gaze riveted upon Spencer, his light brown eyes and the peanut-colored tone to his hair under the light of the cabin. “Here.”

Aaron resisted the urge to duck his head in embarrassment. “Thank you.” He accepted the ice packs, folding one over each hand and resting them on the table between them. Spencer opened a book and rested it on the table. The light glinted off of his glasses, showing Aaron his reflection. It seemed Spencer did not want to talk, but under the table, he extended his foot and bumped it up against Aaron’s, their ankles colliding and knocking up against each other. Aaron carefully rubbed the pristine toe of his shoe up against the inside of Spencer’s ankle, toward his thigh. Spencer’s light eyes darted up toward him once, and he smiled, and then he resumed reading his book, all hunkered down over the tome, his hands in his lap. The pages of the book unfurled in such a way that when he needed to turn the page, he would blow a puff of breath across the open sheets, and exactly one page would turn and allow him to continue. 

In a few minutes, the game behind them grew a little more raucous. Aaron massaged his hands under the ice packs. They helped the pain and the swelling. Movement still made them ache. He’d taken ibuprofen before boarding the plane, but he couldn’t tell that it had helped all that much. Reducing the inflammation would take something a little more powerful, and he wasn’t sure what that would be—he wouldn’t take narcotics for a problem that would be chronic for the rest of his life. That was just asking for trouble. Surgery was out of the question; he couldn’t be out of the field for that long, even if he did determine it was worth the risk of losing the rest of his capability with his hands. 

Under the table, Spencer’s fingers brushed up against his knees. Aaron almost flinched at the sudden touch. His eyes darted up to Spencer’s, but Spencer didn’t look up from his book, though his hands slid up the knees of Aaron’s trousers and touched his hands, first just his fingertips, but Aaron allowed the ice packs to slip into his lap and opened his now cold hands for Spencer’s touch, pressing them palm to palm. He continued to read. He flexed Aaron’s fingers backward one at a time, just like he had the day before, and the pressure was familiar and easier now than it had been when Aaron attempted to do it by himself. Aaron stared at the grain of the table. He tried not to smile. Spencer wrapped his hands around Aaron’s as well and bent his fingers toward his palms into a loose fist and allowed them to relax over and over again. 

Spencer knew what he was doing. Aaron was sure he had, at some point, read books on the matter; he’d also probably snooped into the X-rays of Aaron’s hands, because Aaron knew he had done a decent amount of research in trying to find him the most qualified orthopedic surgeon in the city of DC. At the time, Aaron had appreciated his efforts—he had been far too busy making funeral arrangements to also worry about seeing a doctor for himself. Aaron had been stretched thin more than a handful of times in his life, but that period was the most trying for him by far, he thought. They had all supported him in their own ways. Aaron would never forget the things they had done to help him, then. 

The game of snack poker became louder, and as it did, Aaron looked up at Spencer. Spencer made a brief eye contact with him, and then he closed his book, sensing that Aaron wanted to speak with him. “I think we need to talk about your hand-to-hand lessons.” Spencer kept flexing Aaron’s fingers as he spoke, staring off to the slope of Aaron’s shoulder, how he cleverly avoided eye contact while still looking at him. “Tonight?” Aaron pressed. 

“Tomorrow?” Spencer asked instead.

_ Don’t press him, don’t press him, he’s agreeing to do it in the first place.  _ Aaron was worried about Spencer, but Rossi was right—he was taking this too personally. He needed to step back and tell his anxieties to shut the hell up.  _ I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— _ He saw everything that could happen to Spencer whenever he closed his eyes, saw Spencer’s head severed from his body and a mural painted in his blood and there was the mask again and behind Spencer’s stolen glasses, those cold, cold eyes—Spencer squeezed his hands, and a tight breath hitched in Aaron’s chest, interrupting the cycle of darkness churning in his mind. He coughed slightly. “Tomorrow is fine.” He fought to keep his voice normal. The uncertainty on Spencer’s face showed that he didn’t buy it. “Where are you staying tonight?” 

Spencer arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to argue about this right now?” he whispered. His voice didn’t rise above the level of the poker game ensuing behind him, becoming increasingly heated as Prentiss played her cards. 

Aaron swallowed. “What makes you think we’re going to argue?” He’d been out of line yesterday. He knew it. He’d known it as soon as he’d cursed at Spencer, and he’d apologized, and he knew Spencer had forgiven him, but they’d never actually resolved the conversation, and now, tonight, Spencer had to sleep  _ somewhere. _ Aaron didn’t want him to sleep at home. If it weren’t for Jack, Aaron would have had no trouble turning himself into Spencer’s personal gargoyle, but Aaron could not upturn Jack’s life by leaving him with Jessica indefinitely or, god forbid, putting him and Spencer under the same roof when he  _ knew _ a homicidal maniac was chasing Spencer. Jack had enough issues from the first time he’d had to hide from a killer in his own home. Aaron would not allow him to repeat the experience. 

Spencer inclined his eyebrows and stared down at the cover of his book, still rubbing Aaron’s hands, tracing the lines of his carpals. “I’m going home,” he said. “I hope that’s okay with you.” 

As his direct supervisor, Aaron had a lot of authority over Spencer. He could give him almost any directive in the field, could even tell him to put his life on the line at whim without much blowback… but he didn’t have the power to  _ order _ him not to sleep in his own apartment that he paid for. Aaron licked his lips. “It’s not. But I guess it has to be.” What else could he do? He couldn’t force Spencer to stay with Morgan or Rossi. It didn’t work that way. “Will you at least let me take you and do security checks?” he bargained, raising an eyebrow. He could not give Spencer an order; Spencer was not his agent now, but his partner, his partner not in the legal or police way but in the romantic way. They hadn’t decided the terms of this relationship, but… Aaron liked to think of Spencer in that way. 

Spencer nodded. “I can compromise with security checks,” he agreed. “I have something at my apartment I want to give you, anyway.” He bent Aaron’s fingers backward toward him, and then Aaron pressed it back forward, bending Spencer’s finger, and they worked in slow tandem like two kids lying on their backs playing bicycle with their legs, foot to foot. 

Aaron tilted his head. “Oh?” Spencer kept admiring the glossy cover of the book he’d brought along. If it weren’t for the eyes upon them, Aaron would’ve reached out to touch his face, caress his chin, but Rossi’s sharp gaze landed upon him and regarded him with a certain peculiar interest. Aaron wondered if he had betrayed too much, finally, if his body language had given away too much. “Will you tell me, or am I going to be surprised?” He pretended not to notice Rossi.

“You abhor surprises,” Spencer pointed out. He finally lifted his gaze to Aaron’s with a somewhat quizzical look upon his face. 

“So you’ll tell me, then?” Aaron asked. Could Rossi see their hands from where he sat? No, no way, they were under the table. No one could see their hands unless they  _ looked _ at their hands deliberately. To any other onlooker, they merely had their hands in their laps out of sight. 

A small smile, a mere ghost of a thing, appeared on Spencer’s lips. Aaron would’ve liked to kiss it. He could never be so daring. “I have an extra weighted blanket,” Spencer said. He warmed the backs of Aaron’s hands with his own, and then he replaced his hands with the ice packs again— _ intermittent ice therapy, _ Aaron recognized,  _ to reduce swelling and inflammation.  _ “Since you apparently like to be crushed to the mattress in your sleep.” 

Aaron blew a short breath out his nose, almost a laugh—it would’ve been louder if he had had the ability to laugh out loud, but the team would not know what to make of him laughing, and Aaron knew better. They would suspect. Perhaps they already did, at least in some capacity. Aaron hoped they kept their mouths closed and their thoughts private until after they caught this man, until after he and Spencer had the opportunity to discuss things and decide how, or if, they wanted to proceed.  _ If.  _ There was the possibility that Spencer would decide to discontinue this tryst between them. If he made that decision, Aaron would have to accept it, no matter how much it  _ hurt _ (and oh, did it hurt just to consider the prospect). Aaron prayed Spencer would not reach that verdict on his account. Aaron would find a way to work around the bureau. He would find a way to do anything—Gideon was right, jobs could be replaced. Spencer couldn’t be. 

Maybe it was wrong for him to have grown so attached in only a few days. He hadn’t known anyone in this capacity since Haley. He didn’t know how to handle a relationship that hadn’t built since they were teenagers. 

“I appreciate that,” Aaron said with a small, dim smile.

The flight continued with silence between them. Every twenty minutes like clockwork, Spencer would push the ice packs from Aaron’s hands and do passive range of motion with him, feeling the way his joints bent beneath his fingers, and once another twenty minutes had passed, he would replace his touch with the ice again. It didn’t hurt as much. Aaron didn’t know if it was the range of motion, the ice, or the intermittent touches Spencer gave him which relieved so much of the torment in the pit of his stomach. 

Somehow, when he touched Spencer, some part of him believed everything would be okay. 

Another part of him believed Spencer was certainly going to die a painful death unless Aaron physically wrapped his body around him and sewed their skins together and refused to let anything separate them. 

Aaron wasn’t sure which part was more logical—it seemed too optimistic to trust that everything would be okay and too reactive to assume active shooter protocol. What was in between? Nothing but this moment, with Aaron’s fingers bent loosely toward his palms and Spencer’s trailing over the backs of his hands. Over the table, Spencer read his book, blowing the pages open one by one with his breath, and Aaron gazed fondly, softly, at Spencer’s face, his face chiseled of blood and earth and sculpted by a master’s loving hands. 

The flight landed at Quantico. Spencer closed his book and tucked it away into his satchel. Morgan approached through the aisle and clapped him firmly on the shoulder. “Hey, Reid, c’mon, we’re racing JJ and Prentiss back to the building from the airfield.”

Spencer frowned as he stood. “I’ve never won a race before in my entire life.”

“That’s why you’re going to ride on his back,” Prentiss provided helpfully. Spencer’s eyes widened, and he glanced back at Aaron, who shrugged—he didn’t have any provisional advice for their sudden wife-carrying race of sorts, and he found it usually benefitted him to stay  _ out _ of the workings of the younger members of the team if he wanted any hint of sanity in his life. 

Spencer licked his lips. “Okay, I guess I’m game.” He slipped out of the seat and followed the other agents down the stairs onto the airfield. Aaron picked up the ice packs and put them back in the freezer. Rossi faced him, watching him, and Aaron pretended not to notice until he cleared his throat. 

“What was that about?” 

Aaron reached into the overhead bin for his carryon. “What was what about?” he asked innocently as he pulled it down and tucked it over his shoulder. 

“Reid just  _ asked your permission _ before doing something ridiculously stupid with the others. He’s never done that before.” Aaron shrugged. Rossi followed him down the walkway of the plane and down the stairs onto the asphalt. “Do you know why that is?”

“I don’t really care, but the tone of your voice tells me you’re planning on letting me know.”  _ I do care, but I’m hoping you don’t. _ He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it. Across the airfield, a shriek echoed, and in the distance, JJ buried her face in Prentiss’s hair, clinging to her back as Prentiss raced to keep up with Morgan, and Spencer flopped around on top of him like a backpack with too-loose straps. Aaron resisted the urge to smile—but it was difficult. It was difficult. 

“Aaron, you need to be  _ careful _ with how you conduct yourself around him.” Aaron shot Rossi a sideways look. “He’s frail right now. He needs someone. And you’re taking this too personally and allowing yourself to get too close to him.”

Turning his gaze straight ahead, Aaron bit back a sigh. “I’m not going to hurt him, Dave.”

“Did I insinuate that you were?”

“What else were you insinuating?”

Rossi inclined his eyebrows. Aaron walked slowly so Rossi could keep stride with him. “I just don’t think it’s wise for you to lead him to believe you’re so invested in this.”

“In what? His well-being? His safety? You don’t think it’s good for him to know I care about that?”

“Not in the way you’ve been doing.”  _ What way is that? _ Aaron almost snapped in response, but he didn’t, because he didn’t want to know the answer. Instead, he set his jaw. “Aaron, I’ve talked to Gideon.” Aaron’s whole body pulsed with a chill.  _ Fuck Gideon, fuck him and his big mouth, fuck how he hurt Spencer, fuck him sticking his nose into our business. _ Gideon had no right to tell Rossi a damn thing. “He has an immense amount of concern for some feelings he thinks Reid harbors for you.”

Either Gideon hadn’t told Rossi everything, or Rossi was pretending so—Aaron wasn’t sure which he preferred. “Gideon’s concerns have no bearing on my conduct. He wasn’t concerned for the past four years and has no right to start now.” Had it been up to him, Spencer never would’ve rolled out the red carpet to welcome Gideon back into their lives. As it was, Aaron was filled with distaste for him. “What Reid  _ doesn’t _ need is for all of us to start treating him differently.”

“And what do you think you’re doing? You spent the last twenty minutes of the flight staring at his face. He looked at you to make sure it was okay before he did something stupid with Morgan. What do you call that? Treating him normally?”

Aaron bit back a frustrated huff. “You know what I mean.” The building grew larger as they approached, and Aaron couldn’t wait until he got to escape this uncomfortable conversation. “If we start treating him distantly, it will hurt him. He’ll regret trusting us enough to say anything.” Aaron  _ prayed _ the rest of the team understood that. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if Morgan or Rossi or even JJ or Garcia began to treat Spencer differently, treat him like they didn’t know how to handle it or were afraid to initiate contact. Spencer valued his relationships with the team so much. Aaron couldn’t stand to see those jeopardized. 

“And you don’t think your conduct could be misconstrued as interest?”

_ Misconstrued is not the word I would use. _ “I think Reid is a quantifiable genius,” Aaron said patiently, “who knows exactly what I intend.”

Oh, Spencer knew. Spencer knew. 

…

In the bullpen, Spencer sat at his desk and spun around and around on his chair, watching the world spin around him. He wore a big, silly smile on his face, because they’d won the de facto wife-carrying race, which meant JJ and Emily owed him and Morgan his weight in beer (they promised to make half of it beer for Morgan and half of it Spencer’s favorite Minute Maid juices, in the interest of Spencer’s sobriety). The bullpen was exactly as he had left it before he’d gone on his journey, the day he’d called JJ and told her he would take a few days. The familiarity both soothed and shocked him. 

This place was the same, routine, familiar, a solid rock foundation where the rest of Spencer’s world felt incredibly uneasy right now. But… everything had changed, and the sameness of this place was almost eerie in a way. 

“Spence, you need a ride home?” JJ called as she packed up the last handful of her files. 

Spencer shook his head. “No, Hotch said he’d drive me. He wants to make sure my apartment is killer-proof.” 

“Wait a minute,” Morgan interrupted. “You’re not seriously going back to your  _ apartment, _ are you?” Spencer glanced up at him with wide eyes, his eyebrows raising toward his hairline. “That’s crazy. You’re being stalked. This guy could be  _ anywhere. _ He could’ve come back here days ago and had that long to plan the perfect entrance to your apartment. He could already have a game plan to take off your head—hell, he could be in your home waiting for you when you get there!” Spencer opened his mouth to respond, but then Aaron and Rossi strode into the bullpen together. “Hotch, get a load of this! The kid thinks he can go home by himself!” 

Spencer placed his foot on the ground so the chair would cease its motion. “I can go stay at the place where I pay rent,” he reminded Morgan. “I’m not going to couchsurf for the indefinite future.”

“Hotch!” Morgan implored. “Tell him he’s being crazy!” 

“I have.” Aaron glanced at his watch. 

JJ and Emily both sneaked out of the side of the bullpen, escaping all notice except for Spencer’s, who gave JJ an innocent little wave of farewell. “You’re not seriously going to let him go home alone, are you? I mean—you’re kidding, right?” 

Aaron looked at Morgan. “I can’t order him to stay at someone else’s house. I’ve made my recommendation, and he won’t take it. There’s nothing else I can do.” 

“You told Emily she had to play dead for seven months and JJ she had to lie to all of us about it! You can tell him he has to sleep somewhere else until we catch this guy.” 

Spencer blinked. “Er—are you trying to suggest I should fake my own death?” He didn’t want to get flown off to Paris for half a year. He had quite a few qualms against that. 

“Morgan,” Aaron said slowly, in a careful, neutral tone, “Reid will stay at his apartment. I’m going with him to check everything out and make sure he’s safe. I can’t force him to stay somewhere else against his will.”

“You could.”

“You’re right, I could, but it’s called kidnapping, and it’s generally frowned upon.” Aaron headed up the stairs toward his office. By his door, Strauss waited with a stern look upon her face, and he unlocked the door and they both entered, visible through the open blinds. Rossi collected his things at his desk. 

“You’re not serious, Reid,” Morgan pressed. “You can’t go home by yourself.”

“I’m fine—Hotch is going to check my locks.”

“I don’t care if Hotch is going to sit guard outside your front door! You shouldn’t be staying by yourself!” His voice rose up the octave in frustration. “ _ Anything _ could happen to you. What if he takes your glasses again and you aren’t even able to call for help?”

_ That’s a possibility. _ Spencer shifted his jaw. “You worrying about me isn’t going to make me any safer,” he told Morgan pointedly. 

“Hey,” Rossi called, “Morgan. C’mon—hurry, I’m holding the elevator.” He’d given an instruction—telling Morgan to leave Spencer alone. As much as Spencer appreciated Morgan’s concern, he was grateful for his absence as he walked away, jogging to join Rossi on the elevator. Spencer looked back up at Aaron’s office window. Through it, he could see Strauss’s and Aaron’s mouths moving in a heated exchange, each of them poised. Strauss’s hands were open, palm up, toward Aaron—asking for something, an odd look upon her face. Aaron passed her a file, and Spencer made out the words, “ _ Thank you, _ ” from her lips as she accepted it. They exchanged a few more words before Strauss stepped out of his office and made a beeline back for her own, her heels clacking on the floor as she strode past the bullpen with so much force that Spencer was tempted to duck for cover. 

Aaron didn’t scare him anymore, but Strauss probably always would. 

Aaron left his office with his go bag over his shoulder and headed back down the stairs to Spencer’s desk, his face pensive and severe. He paused at Spencer’s desk, and Spencer stood and adjusted his things as he trotted after Aaron, who walked with purposeful, long strides. He was  _ irked, _ and it showed in his gait, but inside the building with all of the security cameras pointing at them, they could do nothing, share nothing, say nothing between the two of them. Anything they exchanged now would appear on camera, and though Spencer could not stop analyzing every micro-expression between them, he feared what someone else would see if they looked too closely. 

He wondered what the team thought, what they had seen, and if he weren’t so afraid, he would’ve asked. But he wouldn’t risk cluing anyone in, even JJ. He needed to talk about it with Aaron first, and before that could happen, he needed Aaron to be stable, and before  _ that _ could happen, they needed to solve this case. Neither of them would find any peace of mind while they were busy worrying about a killer on the loose. They couldn’t make any rational decisions or hold a decent conversation. How could Aaron deny him anything if he believed Spencer was going to die a violent death?

Spencer closed his eyes in the elevator—he always did that now, closed his eyes and released slow, measured breaths to try to keep his anxiety down when the box closed in around him. It sank lower and lower down the tower, and the bell dinged when they reached the bottom. Spencer strode after Aaron again, who maintained his silence except for the slightly elevated inhale-exhale of his breaths. Spencer wanted to take his pulse again. He had done it on the jet, subtly, occasionally allowing his fingers to brush up against the inside of Aaron’s wrist and palpate the radial artery to count the beats of his heart. But Aaron seemed more agitated now. Spencer wanted to check it again. 

Across the parking lot, Spencer remained just a half-step behind Aaron, allowing him to lead. It occurred to Spencer as he approached Aaron’s Camry that he’d never actually gotten  _ into _ Aaron’s car before, had only ever seen it from the outside, from the parking lot. He didn’t know what he expected. Aaron unlocked the car doors, and Spencer climbed into the passenger side and buckled himself in. 

The car was clean, not dusty on the interior, with a carseat secured in the backseat. A dash hosted a miniature statue of Saint Christopher—it surprised Spencer, this religious paraphernalia, the only thing Spencer had ever seen indicating Aaron’s faith. In fact, he didn’t recall any religion at Haley’s funeral (and if Spencer didn’t recall it, it hadn’t happened). Spencer almost wanted to touch it. He didn’t, though. It looked aged and antique, and he didn’t want to interfere with whatever ritual had compelled Aaron to mount it there. 

Aaron cranked the car. 

Spencer expected him to initiate conversation now that they were in private, but he didn’t. The silence stretched onward. Finally, Spencer asked, “What did Strauss want?”

Aaron’s jaw shifted. “The director wants us off of this case.” Spencer frowned. “He wants to classify the killer as inactive and reassign us to another location to amend for the resources we wasted in Atlanta.”

“Seems preemptive to classify a killer as inactive when his last murder was just a few days ago.”

“I know that. So does Strauss.” Aaron licked his lips as he turned out of the parking lot. “She bought us ten days to investigate. After that, if we continue, I’ve been threatened with suspension.” 

Spencer put his hand on Aaron’s knee, trusting that no one could see, or if someone did, their opinion probably wouldn’t count, anyway. “We’ve solved lots of cases in fewer than ten days,” he reminded Aaron.  _ We’ve also had lots of cases that took much longer than that. _ He tried not to think about that part. “What’s the director’s plan if he strikes again?”

Aaron shifted his jaw. “I don’t know. I’m trying not to consider the possibility.”  _ He’s still afraid. _ Aaron kept both hands on the steering wheel for a few more blocks before he eased his white-knuckled hands and placed his right hand over Spencer’s left. He pressed their hands together gently. Spencer slid one finger down into the crook of Aaron’s wrist between his bones and his tendons and felt his radial artery pulsing back to him, strong and fast. “You haven’t told anyone anything, have you?”

Spencer blinked in surprise. “No, of course not. I don’t want them all up in my business.” And he liked Aaron having all of his teeth—when Morgan found out, Spencer feared that would no longer be the case, at least if he didn’t have a game plan established to prevent collateral damage. “Have you?”

Aaron shook his head. “No. Prentiss has been looking at me strangely. And Rossi broached an unusual topic earlier.” 

The frown on Spencer’s face deepened. “Emily said something a little strange to me yesterday,” he remembered aloud. “Not bad, just—she mentioned your name in a way I didn’t expect her to. But it was really—she said it in a very nonchalant way. I passed it off.” Aaron made a hum in the back of his throat. “Gideon told me he talked to Rossi. He said he tried to put him off our trail.”

“I think it did the opposite.” Aaron’s voice was lower than before, slower, begrudging. “He thinks I’m leading you on.” 

“Oh.” Spencer didn’t know what to say to that. Gideon was new to all of this, too, trying to keep this relationship a secret, so it didn’t surprise Spencer that he had not achieved his goals when he set to dissuade Rossi from their path. Besides, Rossi was a profiler, too, and a stubborn one at that. “You don’t like him very much, do you? Gideon, I mean.” 

A short breath puffed from Aaron’s nostrils, which flared with the exhale. “I’m not willing to roll out the red carpet for him. For either of us.” Gideon had packed his bags and left town without so much as a phone call—didn’t even have the decency to let Spencer hear his voice when he decided to abandon him. At least Spencer had gotten the letter; Aaron hadn’t gotten a thing. He’d gotten a notice from the bureau that Jason Gideon had submitted his resignation effective immediately and would not be returning to the team. Gideon hadn’t known Spencer was sober. He hadn’t known that Aaron was divorced, or that Haley was dead. He hadn’t known about JJ and Emily or Paris or anything in that vein. He had missed  _ so much _ , and now he was bumping his head in their business again, trying to figure out what was going on when he hadn’t been given an invitation in the first place. 

Spencer understood that. He did. He didn’t  _ agree, _ but he did understand. “I’m trying to be forgiving.”

Aaron squeezed his hand. “I know.” 

Of course he knew; he always knew. Spencer would be forgiving, and Aaron would hold that grudge to protect him, and somehow, they would meet in the middle. 

At Spencer’s apartment complex, they climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, and Spencer unlocked his front door. Unsurprisingly, Aaron entered first, and Spencer didn’t remark upon it. Spencer followed him into the apartment and locked the door behind him, placing his keys on the ring and his shoes by the front door where they belonged. He adjusted his satchel over his shoulder. Preoccupied, Aaron examined the living room. “I’m going to put my things away,” Spencer said. Aaron uttered a grunt and a nod in response, consumed by his thoughts. 

Spencer watched him for a moment longer, the way his sober face contemplated on the walls and the furniture of Spencer’s apartment, before he headed down the hallway. He closed the door to his bedroom as he unpacked his go bag and put things away where they belonged. Everything needed to be washed. He didn’t think they would be going on another case any time soon, at least for the ten days Strauss had bought them to solve this case. 

_ Ten days. _ It was almost unbelievable to Spencer. This man had been following him for more than five years—it had, in fact, been two thousand and nine days since Tobias Hankel’s death, which was, Spencer could only assume, when the stalking began.

Of course, there was the possibility that he had been stalked much longer than that and Tobias Hankel was merely the trigger that compelled the stalker to descend into violence, a streak which had now crossed state lines many times and pursued Spencer to several different locales. There was one in Connecticut, with Chester Hardwick. One outside the Separatarian Sect in Colorado. One less than a block from the house where Spencer had been shot (he wondered how that one had slipped through their cracks). He sat down on the end of his bed and buried his face in his hands, taking a deep, measured breath, trying not to let it all overwhelm him. 

He lifted his head to look at the sound absorbers on his walls. They silenced the room. The quiet prevented overstimulation, and Spencer appreciated that. 

Two quick raps followed on the door. “Spencer?” Aaron called from outside. 

Spencer’s brow furrowed. He stood from the bed and opened the door. “Yeah?” 

Aaron’s body hovered close to his, so close Spencer could feel the heat radiating from him. “Did you hear anything?” 

The crease of concern between Spencer’s eyes deepened. He peered up at Aaron. He would’ve relished in their nearness, but instead, Aaron had piqued his worry. “No… Did  _ you _ hear anything?”

Aaron’s eyes darted up to the sound absorbers. “We have to take these down.” 

“What?” Spencer’s eyes widened. What the hell was Aaron doing? He moved around Spencer and began to detach the sound absorbers from the walls, ripping the command strips from the paint. “What are you doing?”  _ This is  _ **_my_ ** _ apartment! _ he almost snapped, but he bit his tongue, because he knew Aaron wouldn’t tear things off of his walls without a reason.

“I just rearranged your entire living room and dropped every pot and pan in your kitchen. If you didn’t hear any of that, you wouldn’t hear if someone came in your front door.” Aaron reached up to take down another panel. “We have to take these down,” he repeated.

“I—” Spencer peered past him to gaze up the hallway and, sure enough, saw his sofa and his chair turned over on themselves, pots and pans scattered across his linoleum floor, the television turned on with the volume blaring, some of his heaviest books dropped onto the floor. “Okay,” he agreed instead, and he began to dismantle the sound absorbers, as well.

They worked their way from wall to wall toward the middle, dropping the sound absorbers onto the floor, and then Aaron collected them, pulling the string to drop the ladder to Spencer’s attic space. Spencer stood back and held the ladder steady for him as he dropped them into the attic space one at a time, making a stack. Spencer watched his contemplative, solemn face as he worked. His eyes were haunted, his eyebrows low over his stern expression. Spencer wanted to ask him for his thoughts, but he didn’t know how to phrase the question. 

Aaron climbed back down the ladder and pushed it back up into the ceiling, and then he looked at Spencer, studying him. Spencer gazed down at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. “I—I have that blanket for you—”

“Let me put your apartment back together.” 

Spencer took the extra blanket out of the closet and followed Aaron up the hallway. He left the blanket on the kitchen counter and picked up his pots and pans, which he organized in a particular way and didn’t want Aaron to mess it up so he’d have to redo it again. Aaron pushed the sofa and the chair back where he’d found them and folded the throws over their backs where they belonged and carefully pushed the large books onto the shelves in the order in which Spencer had had them (and this attention to detail warmed his heart). He turned off the television, and then he met Spencer by the front door. 

His hickory eyes met Spencer’s. Spencer licked his lips, picking up the blanket and shifting it into Aaron’s arms. Aaron made a surprised sound as he received it. “This is heavy.” 

“Well—yeah, it’s a weighted blanket. It’s supposed to be heavy.” Spencer gave a lopsided grin. “Maybe you should start working out.” 

Aaron arched an eyebrow at him. “You think?” He smirked at Spencer, placing the folded blanket back on the counter. His hands anchored themselves to Spencer’s hips. He pulled him in closer. Spencer gulped and placed his hands on Aaron’s shoulders, admiring the material of his suit coat. His heartbeat fluttered in his neck. “Maybe I should get some practice in right now.” 

Spencer floated into Aaron’s arms, or that was how it felt—the butterflies in his stomach grew wings and grabbed onto his clothing and lifted him off the ground, lifting him into Aaron’s embrace, wrapping his legs around Aaron’s body and his hands scrambling to find purchase on his person as Aaron hoisted him into his arms. He gave a breathy, nervous laugh into Aaron’s lips, where his mouth landed without any warning, and he exhaled into the kiss.

One arm curled around Aaron’s neck; the other hand tangled in his hair. Spencer clung to him like velcro. Aaron pressed his tongue into the kiss, and Spencer opened his mouth, allowing him entrance. His heart thundered in his chest. It leapt into his throat and flopped like a beached fish on the shore seeking water once again. The sensation of Aaron’s tongue in his mouth set his nerves aflame, his whole body tingling, his fingertips cold. Aaron’s mouth broke from his. “Aaron, I— _ ah. _ ” A hoarse moan erupted from Spencer’s lips as Aaron closed his mouth at Spencer’s pulse point, feeling the floundering of his heart there. 

The heat from his mouth baked into Spencer’s skin, the trail sloppy and scintillating with the moisture he left behind. His lips plucked at Spencer’s neck almost roughly. It wasn’t enough to leave a mark, nothing permanent, but it was a communication to  _ Spencer,  _ though no one else could see it; a single word that Spencer could hear on Aaron’s every huffed breath as he established his possession,  _ mine, mine, mine, mine, mine. _ His teeth bared and scraped down Spencer’s neck. “Oh,  _ fuck _ —” Spencer keened an obscene sound, a noise he had never made before in his entire life and until this moment he didn’t know he had the ability to produce. He yanked Aaron’s hair. Spencer’s skin crackled like an ignited bunsen burner, the intensity of the moment sizzling on his every nerve. “ _ Aaron _ —” The corners of his eyes smarted. 

Aaron hadn’t bitten him yet, but he  _ wanted _ to, and Spencer knew it. His mouth slid below Spencer’s collar, breath wafting across the junction between his neck and shoulder, and Spencer braced himself for a bite, for a bruise to appear under his collar where he could hide it until it healed. He braced himself, but the bite never came. 

The tip of Aaron’s nose brushed down the line of Spencer’s neck. He withdrew. Spencer whimpered an involuntary, needy sound. “Aaron,  _ please— _ ” Aaron pressed their lips together. Spencer’s body shuddered with the hot need. He felt like a marshmallow. Aaron had stuck him onto a stick and held him over a fire pit and watched him char and melt, and now he took him back from over the open flame and admired the softened, malleable mess of a person he had created. 

Spencer’s rubbery legs threatened to cave underneath him when his feet met the ground. Aaron’s smirk crossed his face again, his lips redder than before and slightly swollen. “Maybe  _ you _ should start working out,” he said quietly. “Need a leg day to help you stand up straight.”

Spencer’s uneven breaths puffed out. He tried to laugh. “You…” There were no words to follow, so he shook his head. 

“What’s that?” Aaron arched an eyebrow at him. “Come again?” Spencer panted, trying to catch his breath, and he shook his head again. “Do you mean to tell me I have brought the exceptionally precocious and overwhelmingly brilliant Dr. Reid to a loss of words?” Spencer’s face flamed even hotter, and he nodded. “Did I take every ounce of blood from your brain?” Spencer could’ve corrected the misconception, that there was always some amount of blood flowing through the vascular portions of the brain and that amount was not reduced based on the arousal status of the rest of the person’s body, but he didn’t have enough breath for that, so he nodded again. “Consider me flattered.” 

Spencer caught his breath, almost feeling a stitch form in his side. “You’d be even more flattered if you didn’t stop.”

“I’m sure I would.” But Aaron was tucking the heavy blanket over his arm again, a refusal; he would do nothing else to Spencer today, not even if it was asked of him. Spencer wasn’t surprised at his declination, but Aaron had wound up his whole body like a spring and then—left him. Just left him. 

A long look passed from Aaron to Spencer, and some of the boiling blood returned to his mind and allowed him to relax some of the tight muscles in his back. Aaron’s pondering look examined him, sad, worried, and Spencer felt the need to reassure, “You can go… I’m fine.” 

Aaron blinked. “I don’t want to leave you here.” 

“I’m fine,” Spencer repeated, insistent. “I’m safe here. And—believe me, without those sound absorbers up in my room, I’m going to hear  _ everything. _ ” He’d be lucky to get a wink of sleep. 

Aaron’s mouth tented downward at the corners. “Right.” He wasn’t convinced. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

“I can drive.”

“I want to.” 

Spencer could have protested it, but he knew what Aaron would see in his mind’s eye every minute of the morning if he didn’t agree—Spencer unlocking his car, a masked figure springing from behind another, bashing his head in before he even had the chance to scream. He didn’t want Spencer to go without an escort. Spencer appreciated that. “Okay,” he agreed. “We’ll go by the gym tomorrow?” He had no doubt that Aaron still intended on forcing him to endure hand-to-hand lessons, and Spencer would try his best to appease him—and maybe, maybe, he would gain some skill. After all, Aaron had taught him how to use a weapon successfully. Maybe he could teach him how to use his fists successfully, too. 

Aaron nodded again. “I want you to call me before you go to bed.” 

“I will.” Maybe under other circumstances, Spencer would’ve protested and argued for his independence, but Aaron was concerned about him, and more than that… Spencer wanted to hear his voice before he fell asleep. It would make it easier to imagine himself in his arms. “Aaron, I’m  _ fine, _ ” he insisted, one more time, just to try to drive it home.

It didn’t work. Aaron gave him a small, sad smile. He pressed an innocent kiss to Spencer’s cheek. Spencer hugged him in return, hugged him tightly.  _ I want to press all of your broken pieces back together. _ No matter how hard he squeezed, he couldn’t chase the shadow of that terror from Aaron’s eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Spencer promised. 

“See you tomorrow.”

The door closed behind him. Spencer locked the deadbolt and the main handle. As the sounds of Aaron’s footsteps faded down the hallway, the image of that horror upon his face did not fade from Spencer’s mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! Life got crazy busy, but I'm trying my best to keep up over here!   
> As always, thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you're still keeping up with me here. <3

“I am only a schoolboy with a schoolboy’s hard mind. You are the headmaster. Now you must master me.” -DA Powell

…

When Spencer hit the ground for the third time, all of the air whistled out of his lungs. He bounced off of the padded floor of the gym and glared up at Aaron from behind his glasses, fogged up with his heavy breath and sweat. “You know,” he pointed out, “you don’t have to  _ keep _ knocking me down. I realize you’ve won before I’m on the floor.”

“I’m not knocking you down on purpose.” Aaron extended a hand, and Spencer took it, allowing Aaron to pull him back up onto his feet. “You keep falling. If I knocked you down, you’d know.”  _ Oh, thanks, _ Spencer wanted to say, but he didn’t. He took off his glasses and wiped them off on his T-shirt. He hadn’t expected this to be very much fun, but this… this was a unique type of hell. Aaron plowed into him a lot harder than Gideon ever had, and the last time Spencer had had someone try to teach him hand-to-hand, he’d had more than one good knee. He stumbled when Aaron let go of him, almost buckling to the ground again. “You alright? You need a break?”

“A break would just prolong this.”

“We aren’t going to get anywhere if you can’t stand up.” Aaron steadied him by the shoulders. “Take a break. Get something to drink.” 

Spencer could agree to that. He was thirsty and sweaty, and he wouldn’t think clearly as long as he was dehydrated. He shook off the last impact and headed for the bench where they’d left their things, and he picked up his bottle of water and drank from it. “If you don’t mean to push me over,” he argued, “why do you keep shoving me?”

“Testing your base.” Aaron drank a Gatorade. Spencer had never liked Gatorade. Too sugary. Though he knew the importance of replenishing electrolytes, he just wanted to settle in with his water bottle. “If someone can push you over, you won’t get very far trying to fight your way up from the ground. You need to be able to absorb impact without falling over.” 

Spencer vaguely remembered Gideon mentioning that, something about his core and his feet and his legs, a low center of gravity… All of the scientific explanations he’d ever heard had not gotten him anywhere with actually  _ executing _ a technique. But Aaron was right. Hell, that was how Tobias Hankel had gotten him—had knocked him down, and then he didn’t stand a chance of reaching for his weapon or calling for help or doing anything to defend himself under the watchful eye of his captor with the loaded gun. 

It didn’t help that Aaron was wearing a muscle tank, and Spencer kept focusing on the musculature and circulation of his arms, kept noting the occasional flash of hip bone or navel when the tank fluttered outward as Spencer hit the floor again, and it made it difficult for him to improve any sort of martial technique when he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wished Aaron was kissing him right now. 

“You keep zoning out.” Spencer blinked at the sound of Aaron’s voice. “Like right now.” 

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I… am having a hard time focusing.” Aaron arched an eyebrow at him, asking for clarification. “It’s hard when you look like…  _ that. _ ” Aaron blew a short breath of a laugh out his nose, drinking another swallow from his Gatorade. “It’s easy for you. I look ridiculous in athletic wear. You look like some idol sculpted to represent a deity.” 

Aaron surveyed the gym, checking for cameras—they’d done it more than once since they arrived, deciding only the entrance had a good camera view, but Aaron didn’t seem to believe they’d done it thoroughly enough, or perhaps he wanted to ensure doubly there were no witnesses around who could spy them. “You’re silly cute,” Aaron said when he satisfied his fear of being caught. “Silly, but very cute.” Spencer knew he looked silly. He had to wear women’s shorts; men’s long shorts were too long on him, sensory hell when they flapped around his knees. The sleeves of his T-shirt were too large and revealed his ivory pale noodle arms, and the sweatband to keep the sweat from running into his eyes was too broad for his forehead. Aaron extended a hand, touching the small of Spencer’s back, and Spencer hitched a breath and tensed at the sensation. Aaron chuckled. “Somebody’s feeling wound up.” 

Spencer narrowed his eyes at him. “Only because  _ someone _ could be on the cover of  _ Playboy. _ ” 

“ _ Playboy _ has women on the cover.” Aaron nudged him suggestively. “Maybe you could make the cut.”

“Oh, shut up.” 

“Oh, shut up?” Aaron grinned. “Is that your intelligent response to our tiff? Is that intellectual? Made the cut for all of your scientific journals?”

Spencer flushed, ducking his head. He put his water bottle away and got up off the bench. “C’mon and knock me down again.” He walked back out onto the center of the mat, trying to stand up square again. “Tell me that thing about my base again.” He never forgot anything, of course, but maybe Aaron would say it a little differently in a way that would make more sense to Spencer—he had realized this over time, that sometimes different explanations made more sense to him than others. 

With this, it was more difficult, because Aaron kept  _ touching _ him while he taught him aloud, and Spencer could either think about Aaron’s hands on his body or the lilt to his voice and while both were tempting, the hands provided more immediate stimulus. They came again, broad hands touching his abdomen. “It starts with your solar plexus up to your diaphragm…” Aaron continued speaking, but those hands curled against Spencer’s tummy, his fingers dipping into the soft, very small pudge of flesh, sliding lower, lower—his index finger caressed Spencer’s hip bone. “ … is also vital, so is your breathing…” This reminded Spencer that he hadn’t breathed in almost a full minute, and everything blinked blearily at the corners of his vision. He drank in a deep breath. The scent of Aaron’s cologne inundated him. 

A flash of movement came from the corner of Spencer’s eye. He braced himself, and this time, Aaron pushed him with both hands on his chest. Spencer stumbled backward, but this time, his foot slid backward and caught him, redistributing his weight with both arms flashing up. His hands didn’t form fists—he didn’t have that reflex—but this time, he didn’t fall. He looked up at Aaron, his mouth hanging open in surprise. “You didn’t knock me down that time.” Aaron pushed him again, and with that, he landed on his ass on the padding. “What? No fair.”

“I’m sorry, how many unsubs have you fought that played  _ fair? _ ” Aaron asked. He offered Spencer a hand and tugged him back up onto his feet. “You’re one for five.”

Aaron knocked into him again, and again, and Spencer found a beauty in the rhythm of his body, his muscles under the loud fluorescent lights of the gym. There was a rhythm to it, a pattern.  _ I can profile him, _ Spencer realized. The muscles bunched in Aaron’s right shoulder before he moved to the left; he always flexed his chest before he dropped low; he kept his right leg accessible, never bent under him, a habit from carrying his sidearm on his right leg. He would use his left hand as a distraction and his right hand as a weapon (Spencer realized this  _ after _ Aaron sent him sprawling again). 

Hand-to-hand combat wasn’t something Spencer was skilled at, but profiling was.  _ A profile on physical combat is like any other profile. _ He had had to work it out, but—now he categorized things in his mind, different indications, things in behavior that would point to weak and vulnerable areas to give him an advantage. It didn’t work with Aaron; Spencer already knew that Aaron had arthritic hands and a ton of soft tissue damage and scar tissue on his abdomen. But with someone else? He thought he could make it work. 

Aaron thrust his hands against Spencer’s chest again. Spencer hooked his left arm and right leg out, the former seizing Aaron around the neck and the latter kicking in his supportive knee from behind, and he buckled. Spencer landed on his back on the padding, his right elbow catching him. Aaron fell on top of him. 

The hot flush of Aaron’s body pressed up against his took Spencer’s breath away. It was his  _ whole body, _ not just hovering, only one forearm half-bracing himself above Spencer on the mat, and Spencer gulped as Aaron lifted his head to look at him, wondering if he had just overstepped some boundary, which seemed ridiculous because Aaron was here to teach him how to fight and he’d just managed to bring Aaron to the floor, which was a  _ good _ thing by educational standards. “I didn’t expect that to work,” Spencer admitted. He hadn’t expected himself to do it at all—it had simply occurred to him as a potential method of retaliation, not one that he’d intended to implement. 

“Good job.” Aaron didn’t move. Spencer didn’t want him to. His dark eyes held Spencer’s until he looked away, his belly all hot and bubbling inside of him. His tongue darted out onto his lips to wet them.  _ I’m thirsty again. _ But it wasn’t the type of thirst he wanted to quench from his water bottle. Aaron pushed himself up and stood, again extending a hand to Spencer, and the spell was broken. “What makes you think it’s a good idea to bring me down with you?”

“You’re bigger than me. You’re going to hit the ground a lot harder.” Spencer was a little guy. He would bounce. Someone Aaron’s size would need more time to recover from having the air knocked out of them. “And you being down with me is better than me being down there and you being up here, at any rate.” Aaron nodded in agreement. “But I need the element of surprise. I wouldn’t be able to pull you down by force.” Spencer had no doubt that, if Aaron had seen it coming, he wouldn’t have succeeded in doing much than maybe unbalancing both of them. 

“You don’t always need force if you have enough momentum.”

Spencer frowned. “That’s easy for you to say. How often do you have to fight someone who’s bigger than you?” Spencer didn’t think he had ever seen Aaron go hand-to-hand with someone bigger than him. The number of people they had arrested who were larger than Aaron was quite small, and most of them had been subdued with firearms. It was safer that way. 

Another blur of motion. Spencer caught Aaron’s hand by the wrist and slapped it down. The other hand came up, and he dodged it, leaping back out of Aaron’s grasp.  _ Shoulder drop. _ Spencer saw Aaron moving to the left before he did it, and he hopped to his own left, evading the grasp. He sprang his balance from foot to foot to keep Aaron from knocking him off of his center of gravity.  _ Chest flex. _ Aaron dove forward and Spencer bounded backward just a moment too late.

Aaron grasped a handful of his shirt and snatched Spencer back against him. Spencer yelped in surprise. His hands fluttered upward. Aaron jerked him around. He pirouetted in the air, a helpless ballerina, completely at Aaron’s mercy. Spencer was the marionette, and Aaron was the puppeteer. His arms floundered, scrabbling for purchase, but nothing held. Aaron pulled Spencer’s back against his chest. The crook of his arm pressed against Spencer’s throat. 

Spencer gasped.  _ He’s so powerful. _ The part of him with survival instincts knew, logically, he needed to try to fight his way out of this, to demonstrate to Aaron that he did value his own life, but Aaron’s arm was pressed against his trachea and could at any moment tighten up and choke him out and Spencer  _ liked  _ it, he  _ liked _ being at Aaron’s mercy, being underneath his body, being subject to the whim of his will. Aaron would never tighten his arm—Spencer knew that, knew that all he had to do was pretend to wheeze a little bit and Aaron would drop him faster than a hot coal. There was no actual pressure on his throat. This was pretend, and maybe the pretend was what made it alluring. Or maybe Spencer really would like it if Aaron was rough with him. He wasn’t sure. 

“Now what?” Aaron’s hot breath wafted against his ear. It curled up against his neck. His hair moved with the exhaled words. His voice had dropped low, almost that growl that he made sometimes when he wanted to be most threatening, but softer than that—softer, because this was Spencer and it was pretend, but that didn’t reduce the effect. 

“Ah— _ ah… _ ” Forming coherent thoughts became more difficult. Spencer breathed hard. “I…” When Aaron inhaled, his chest would flare and press up against Spencer’s back, every muscle tangible to him, tactical, real. “I— _ oh. _ ” Another hot breath formed against his skin. 

“Spencer.” Aaron’s voice sharpened. “I’ve just taken you hostage. You’re not meant to be enjoying this.”

“I know, I—” His breath hitched. Aaron’s arm around his throat, his other hand pressed up against his temple where a gun would be, it was all too much. He swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed against Aaron’s arm, and only then did he realize he probably should pretend to fight for his life in this simulation. He put both of his hands on Aaron’s forearm, trying to pull it down. It was a futile effort. 

“How do you plan to get away?” 

_ I can’t. _ Spencer’s heart thundered in his chest. “I can talk my way out.” 

“Is that so?” Aaron said it like a taunt.

Spencer steeled himself. “If you let me go, I’ll blow you.”

“ _ What? _ ”

Spencer dropped out from under Aaron’s loose arm and whipped away from him, whirling around to face him. “I told you. I can talk my way out.” 

Aaron darted for him again. Spencer braced on his bad leg. His knee buckled and gave way. He tried to hook his leg in Aaron’s on his way down, but this time, he didn’t catch in the right place, and Aaron gently kicked his ankle away to keep him from twisting it. At the extension of Aaron’s leg, Spencer grabbed his leg with both arms, one by the ankle, one by the knee, and he pulled  _ hard. _ Aaron toppled to the floor. 

Spencer sprang back upward. Aaron tripped him, and as he fell, Aaron grabbed a handful of his shirt again. Like this, Spencer had no control; Aaron had all of the momentum and freely and eagerly used his own weight against him. They wrestled for a moment. Spencer found himself trapped against Aaron’s body again, arm to his throat, back to Aaron’s chest, and again, Aaron asked, “Now what?” 

There was nowhere for Spencer to go. He couldn’t drop out of Aaron’s grasp if he said the right words, because they were already on the floor, both breathing hard against one another. Aaron’s sweat ran from his temple onto Spencer’s neck. Spencer wanted to scratch at it or wipe it away, but he couldn’t move. 

He shifted his jaw. “You…” The sweat ran into his eyes. They stung. “You wouldn’t have me like this unless—unless there was a hostage negotiator.” Perhaps that should’ve occurred to him sooner, but he recognized it now—no one would ever hold him like this, an arm to his throat, a gun to his head, his body blocking the captor’s own, unless a negotiator had arrived and the unsub feared he would be shot. Spencer licked his lips and closed his eyes because they kept burning from the sweat running into them. “And—I’d let them handle it.”

“What if you don’t trust them to do that?”

Spencer considered. Aaron was right; he would never trust regular police with hostage negotiation. Hell, he’d hardly trust a normal field agent. He had never met anyone as good at hostage negotiation as the BAU. The chances were good that Spencer would be better at getting himself out of that situation alive than the people trying to help him. 

“Well… All I really need is some leverage to break away. If I convince you to point your gun at them instead of me, then your arm is extended, and I—I have more freedom to act. To cause a scuffle and get away, or fight back.”

“You’d fight back?”

“No, but it’d be an option.” 

Spencer had no illusions. He, in all likelihood, would not be able to fight off anyone who got him into this situation. He needed the skills to keep himself alive until someone else came to help him out, and he assumed that was all Aaron wanted for him, as well. It seemed unrealistic for Aaron to expect Spencer to have the ability to subdue an opponent. 

Aaron stretched his arm forward, as if to point a gun at an invisible figure before them. “Demonstrate.” 

Spencer snapped his hands down on Aaron’s elbow, forcing it to fold on reflex, and dug his chin into the arm around his neck until it gave way. He propelled himself off of Aaron’s body and dove to the side—out of the line of fire for any hostage negotiators to take aim at the captor. He rolled with the impact. He was pretty skilled at that; he had taken a lot of hard falls during his time. 

Aaron rose to his feet. “Good job,” he said. Spencer fumbled with his saturated sweatband, ripping it off of his forehead—clearly, it wasn’t doing any good with the way his eyes burned now. Aaron pulled him back upward. Spencer staggered, and Aaron steadied him, one hand on his shoulder, one on his waist. “You alright?” he asked again, dark eyes darting up and down Spencer’s body, assessing him for any damage. 

_ I’m going to be pretty sore. _ Spencer didn’t say it; he wouldn’t intentionally make Aaron feel guilty. “I’m fine.” After all, he’d taken dozens of beatings in his life, and not a single one of them had been as gentle as Aaron was with him. That was part of the magic of it, he thought—that Aaron was so incredibly large, so incredibly strong, and yet had the capacity for great gentleness. This wasn’t a side of him Spencer would have ever seen before they started this thing. Spencer never would have guessed that Aaron would offer him his hands to use while he stimmed or would let him curl up with his head on his chest or would hold him and cry into the crook of his neck or would take him and teach him how to fight without leaving a bruise on his body. He’d only strained his knee, which Spencer could easily treat with an ice pack. 

Aaron went to the bench to collect their things and picked up his duffle bag. He checked his phone. “JJ has some files for us. We need to drop by the round table room.” 

Spencer perked up. “Should we change?”  _ You couldn’t pay me enough money to shower in these locker room showers.  _ Foot fungus, mold, slime, the general stink of men who didn’t know how to wash their own asses rinsing their sweat and sebum down the drains? The thought made his stomach turn. 

“No, just some things for us to grab on our way out.” 

Spencer nodded and shrugged in consideration. He could handle that. He followed Aaron out of the room, his bag slung over his shoulder, and he tried not to think about how ridiculous he would look to any passersby with his women’s shorts and his oversized T-shirt with his ivory arms, now splotchy and sweaty from the exertion, hanging out so noodly and weak. He still had his patterned socks pulled up over his ankles in his tennis shoes. All in all, he was sure anyone spotting him would make a crack at him, or at least they would have if it weren’t for Aaron walking a pace ahead of him, who looked only more intimidating in his athletic wear drawing attention to all of the right places. 

Of course, in Spencer’s eyes, almost every part of Aaron’s body was a right place. His muscle tank betrayed enough of his chest through the sleeves to demonstrate his muscular physique. If it flashed a certain way, Spencer could spy his nipple, and further inward, the deep lines of a scar where a knife had once breached his flesh. Spencer had seen Aaron’s medical records and knew by rote where each of the nine scars dappled his torso, and he wouldn’t ever look at them or touch them without consent—that seemed far too personal—but knowing they were there added a certain rugged allure to him. Aaron’s sweat had soaked through the back of his tank, and it clung to his muscles, outlining every one of them. Spencer could name them and wanted to touch them as he did so, the trapezius tight from his neck down to his shoulder, his deltoid flexing when he moved his arm, his rhomboid slightly inward, the latissimus dorsi contracting with his steps, and lower still than that, his  _ ass _ (Spencer knew the muscle term but  _ ass _ was at the forefront of his mind)—

“If you want to be discreet,” Aaron whispered as he walked, “you’re going to have to stop checking me out.” 

Spencer’s eyes darted away. “Sorry.” It was hard. Spencer had spent a long time not _ knowing  _ who he was, not for sure, and looking at men was not a privilege he had afforded. He could look, but it filled him with uncertainty. He could look, but he couldn’t touch. He could look, but it always came with the caveat that if the wrong man noticed, he’d have his head stuffed down the toilet and bruises beaten into his body, and he wouldn’t know what to say to defend himself because he wasn’t sure what any of it meant in his own head, much less how to explain it to another person, to a person he inexplicably found attractive. Spencer did find Aaron attractive, and he knew it to be true, and he could celebrate it if only in the privacy of his own mind, which was more than he had had for years. 

Aaron pressed the button on the elevator. Spencer would’ve requested the stairs, but his knee ached, and he didn’t want to exert it any more than he had to. He gulped nervously as the light flashed, indicating the elevator had begun its trip toward them. The doors dinged, opened, and Aaron stepped inside. Spencer wedged himself into the corner. He didn’t like to touch any sort of railing for the amount of germs, but in the elevator, he clutched the railing with both white-knuckled hands. 

Aaron selected their floor and fell back beside him, a healthy distance between them under the watchful eye of the camera. “You don’t like elevators, do you?”

“Hate them.”

“Why?”

“Got stuck in one with Morgan once.” 

“I recall.” 

_ Do you? _ Spencer wondered. He recalled that day, remembering most vividly how Aaron’s hand had felt when he patted his shoulder and the way his cologne had wafted over him.  _ I really should’ve figured things out sooner. _ But if he had, they wouldn’t be here right now. If he had, he might’ve harbored feelings for awhile, but Aaron was sorting through his divorce at that time, reluctantly giving Haley everything she wanted and revealing to Spencer,  _ “What I want, I’m not going to get.” _ They never would have become this in the way they were,  _ whatever _ they were. Spencer would’ve had a crush and then ignored it for awhile and eventually, he would’ve come out to JJ and to Emily and to Garcia, and they would’ve set him up on dates and found someone not too terrible who he would’ve liked. 

An alternate universe, sure, but he preferred this one.

Or at least, he preferred this one insofar as he and Aaron were doing this. He did  _ not _ prefer being stalked by a serial killer. Maybe in the alternate universe, he was happy with someone who didn’t work in the FBI, some corporate bigwig who had intimidating dark eyes and could always get what he wanted, and there was no serial killer in that universe.  _ But if you consider multiverse theory, there’s also a universe where I am with the killer romantically, whoever he is… and a universe where he kills me. _

Hell, that meant there was also a universe where Spencer grew up with Aaron and married him young and then divorced him when he worked too hard and didn’t dedicate enough time to his personal life and years later Aaron met Haley at work—

“You’re awfully quiet. What are you thinking about?” 

Spencer cleared his throat, frowning. “Multiverse theory—specifically, quilted multiverse theory, the postulation that in this infinite universe, every possible event is occurring infinitely many times simultaneously in nature, and there are infinitely many universes resembling ours, but the speed of light prevents us from being aware of these identical areas.”

Aaron chuckled, inclining his eyebrows. “Am I supposed to know how you went from checking me out to contemplating multiverse theory in a matter of two minutes?”

Spencer shrugged. “I don’t even know how it happens.” He supposed he could’ve relayed a play-by-play of his thoughts to Aaron, but he didn’t see that as being helpful. He doubted it would elucidate the randomness of his mind to Aaron, and to boot, if he explored all of the alternate universe theories with him aloud, he felt it would be hurtful to him. Some things were better left unsaid, Spencer had learned. 

The elevator dinged again, and Aaron stepped out of the elevator into the hallway, following him step for step through the glass doors and into the bullpen—

“ _ Surprise! _ ” 

Spencer yelped and leapt behind Aaron as the team sprang up, their balloons popping out from under their desks. Balloons in an odd shape, very pink with a…  _ Oh. _ Spencer’s whole face turned maroon. He stood there gaping at the giant, helium-filled dicks, hands splayed out, mouth unable to close for the shock. His eyes darted to Aaron, who gave a knowing smile. 

Rossi found him first, rough hands on his face kissing him on each cheek. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.” Beyond him, Garcia tore the covering off of the banner on the wall, which read in bold rainbow lettering,  _ Congratulations, you’re gay! _ and also had decorative penis art.

Morgan dragged him into a hug. Garcia gave him a calendar and a twenty-four month planner—the former shirtless firefighters, the latter cowboys in assless chaps. “I wasn’t sure what your preference was, so I thought you could have both. Personally, I’m a cowboy girl, but JJ said you had mentioned firefighters. She also said that you had a thing for Frankenstein and Batman, but I couldn’t find shirtless merchandise for either of them.”

JJ ruffled his hair, and Emily hugged him. “I told them you’d suspect if any of us led you up here. You didn’t see it coming at all, did you?” Spencer shook his head, mute and incredulous. Rossi brought out a cake (like everything else, shaped and iced like a penis) and JJ held out gifts in bags. One by one, Spencer opened them, a pair of rainbow Converse, gay socks in rainbows, a shirt with a unique pattern design that matched Emily’s with the lesbian flag and JJ’s with the bisexual flag. 

“We thought you would want to tag along with us to some of the pride events we’re going to.” 

Spencer huffed out a shaky laugh, uncertain how to respond. “Yeah, yeah—I—I’d like that.” Garcia clasped around his neck a necklace with a pendant, stones in all the colors of the rainbow. “What’s this?”

“It opens,” Garcia said excitedly, popping it open to demonstrate. “So you can put a picture of your lover boy in there, when you get that far—right now, I put in a picture of Tesla, since I figured you’d want to honor his life of celibacy before you end your own.” Spencer flushed. She kissed him on the cheek. 

Morgan gave him a piece of cake on a paper plate. “As long as my picture doesn’t wind up in that thing, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows, looking at the cake as he shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Your head’s too big. It’d break the pendant.”

Morgan ogled at him, his eyebrows knitting together in a scowl of mock-hurt. The women giggled, Rossi hiding his laughter behind his beard as he gave Morgan a reassuring pat on the back. Emily chuckled behind Spencer. “Derek Morgan, the twink just  _ burned _ you and every ounce of arrogance in your six foot body.” She patted Spencer on the shoulder, congratulating him again, and then she stepped away, and as Spencer looked back to watch her go, he realized Aaron, too, had left the bullpen. But before he could look for him or follow Emily with his gaze, Morgan was talking to him again, drawing his attention away. 

“C’mon, man, you’re kidding me. You mean you wouldn’t be all up over this?” 

“Sorry, Derek,” JJ said with a shake of her head. “He was very clear about his type. Batman and Frankenstein.”

“No way.” Morgan sat on the desk and hiked up one leg. “So you’re saying I’m not—what’s the word? A bear?” 

Garcia choked on her cake at his sudden insertion of the word, and Spencer grinned. “No, bears are traditionally only heavyset, hairy men. You’re neither.” 

“So gay guys wouldn’t be into me?” 

“I don’t know. Not if they were looking for a bear.” 

“Are  _ you _ looking for a bear?”

Spencer fidgeted.  _ No, I’ve found what I’m looking for, _ was the answer he wanted to give but not one he could provide without attracting much attention and judgment. “I’m not looking for anything, given I’m being stalked by a murderer at the moment.”

Morgan considered. “That’s fair.” Spencer thought he would drop it, but… “So you  _ would _ hit this?”

Spencer sighed.

From his office, Aaron peered through the blinds down at the team mingling below, the cake Garcia had baked and iced herself, the gifts everyone had ordered—it was all even more bawdy than he had imagined, and Spencer was redder than a tomato, but he looked so loved when they each hugged him, something he ordinarily wouldn’t allow. 

Aaron really did have files to sort, and while he loved to observe, he couldn’t be a part of it. He felt no matter what he did, the team would have a magnifying glass to it, would scrutinize it, and the stress of trying to attend a coming out party for Spencer while hiding himself was too much. It wasn’t that the team suspected—he didn’t think they did, for the most part—but that Aaron feared doing anything to clue them in. Especially Morgan, who tousled Spencer’s hair affectionately and then painted icing on his lips. 

Aaron didn’t want to think about how things would change between them if Morgan found out. Spencer cherished his friendship with Morgan. Aaron hated to think he would jeopardize that. 

He sank into his desk chair, and only then did he notice a neatly wrapped package resting on top of his laptop. He frowned. “What’s this?” He picked up the box, shifted it, smelled it—a bomb would’ve detonated when he moved it, and he hoped anything else would have a scent. Delicately, he ripped the tape from the wrapping paper to unfold it from the box. He lifted the lid from it. A folded piece of cotton fabric rested inside. 

Picking it up by the seams, Aaron allowed the T-shirt to unfold and shook it out so he could read the print on the front. His heart skipped a beat. 

The shirt bore a bold color pattern of pink, purple, and blue, with the slogan, “I put the BI in FBI,” wearing the colors. His stomach flipped.  _ Who? _ The box was hand-wrapped, so someone who had access to his office to place it here—not Spencer, Spencer had been with him all day, and he would never do something like this, it had to be  _ someone else _ —

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Aaron folded the shirt facedown to obscure it from view. “Come in.” 

Prentiss entered. She wore a stern look on her face. Closing the door behind herself, she held eye contact with him. She stopped square a few feet in front of his desk, not touching the chair there. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Aaron’s teeth clicked together as he set his jaw. She nodded down to the shirt on his desk. “Well?”

He stood. “Who have you told?” 

“No one. And I’m not going to. But you have to be realistic. They’re going to catch on sooner or later.”

Aaron wasn’t unrealistic. He knew that. But he hoped he and Spencer would be ready to tell them before they figured it out on their own—or perhaps before then, they would have ended things and no one (except Prentiss, it seemed) would ever be the wiser. “How did you know?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve lived it.” 

_ Of course. _ Prentiss’s story with JJ differed in some aspects, but the similarities were clear, all the way down to Doyle and whoever this freak was stalking Spencer. “I suppose.”

“Reid has been giving you heart eyes for days. When you walked in here, he was looking at your ass.” Prentiss stood square with her crossed arms and her jaw set, and from where he sat down, Aaron almost felt threatened by her, enough that he pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. “What exactly do you think you’re doing here?” 

“Nothing,” Aaron said, his voice low and careful. “We haven’t done anything. That was my prerogative.” He had no doubt that if Spencer had his way, they would have broken in more than one bed at the hotel. 

“Really?” Prentiss’s voice indicated she did not believe him. “Because I saw the collar of his shirt pop open yesterday when we were leaving the airfield, and I’m pretty  _ damn _ sure I saw a hickey on his neck. Unless he slipped in the shower and fell on your mouth, that doesn’t look like  _ nothing _ to me.” 

His heart skipped a beat. “That’s  _ all _ that happened.” He steeled himself as he looked into her eyes, but she did not waver. “What is your intention here? To chastise me?” Ultimately, it was not any of Prentiss’s damn  _ business _ who he put his mouth on, or when, or where, or why. 

“Consider it returning the favor.” Of course. Aaron remembered. 

_ Sitting in Afghanistan in a tent, Aaron opened up his laptop. He activated the VPNs he’d asked Garcia to set up for him (under the guise of something very different, and even then, it made him nervous, made him wonder how much digging she was doing), and sure enough, there were the pings of all the calls Prentiss had made over the last week. Twelve calls. Twelve calls in seven days.  _

_ The woman was going to get herself killed.  _

_ It rang three times, and for a moment, Aaron thought she would genuinely ignore his call, but then she answered. “If you’re going to reprimand me, I don’t want to hear it.” _

_ “Who the hell are you calling internationally almost twice a day?” Prentiss was silent at the end of the line. “We’re trying to keep you untraceable.” _

_ “Well, it’d be easier if you hadn’t told Penelope I was dead, now, wouldn’t it?” she deadpanned.  _

_ She was huffy. She’d been huffy with him since she’d woken up from her coma and he’d wrestled her phone away from her to keep her from calling Morgan. For awhile, while she was on the drugs and could not reason, he had padlocked all of her electronics into a safe in her hospital room, and then when JJ had caught her trying to pick the lock with needles out of the sharps container, he’d started taking them with him. Aaron cared about keeping her safe, even if she wanted to treat her own life like a chip she could toss in the middle of a poker game. “Who are you calling? Have you reached out to anyone on the team?” His voice was low, threatening, because they both knew telling anyone about her whereabouts or her mortality status would put that person in danger.  _

_ She puffed a breath of frustration at him. “Of course not! I wouldn’t do anything to put any of them in danger.”  _

_ “Then who?” _

_ “JJ.” It was acceptable, because JJ knew she was alive and had worked to ensure her safety overseas, but—still, the sheer number of calls was downright dangerous. “She’s going through a tough time, and she needs some support. I didn’t always call her. Sometimes she called me.” _

_ That much was true, Aaron could see on the call log. “She has other friends to support her through her issues with Will.” _

_ “I know what’s going on better than they do.” _

_ “How can you say that?” _

_ “I’m the reason she’s leaving him.”  _

_ Aaron raised his eyebrows. He knew Prentiss didn’t like Will—Aaron didn’t much care for him himself, finding him far too pushy and possessive of JJ—but for her to state JJ was leaving him on her account, that was a large statement. “I don’t think JJ’s leaving Will because of your distaste for him.” _

_ “No, she’s leaving him because the last time she was here, I ate her out until she begged for me to stop.” Aaron’s breath choked in his throat, and he coughed in surprise—she held nothing back, and it caught him off-guard. “See, that’s why I sanitized it.” He wheezed, holding one hand to his temple. Her voice softened a little. “She can’t tell anyone else. You told everyone I was dead.” _

_ Well, yes, there was that problem—JJ couldn’t tell anyone she was sleeping with and leaving her boyfriend for a dead woman. “What exactly do you expect to come out of this, Prentiss?” JJ was tearing apart her family for her; she had to have big ideas.  _

_ “We want to get married, if you can ever get me alive again.”  _

_ “You’re putting her in danger.” _

_ “I know that. She knows that.” _

_ “Do you love her?” _

_ Aaron was surprised he asked this question, but he couldn’t eat it once it had escaped his tongue. Prentiss didn’t answer, also apparently surprised at how quickly he asked for her innermost feelings. “I told you I want to marry her, didn’t I?” _

_ “That’s not an answer.” _

_ Her voice softened. “Well, I do. Love her.”  _

_ Aaron exhaled a slow, soft sigh. “Good.” He listened to her breathing on the other end of the line for a long moment. “I’ll… talk to Strauss, and see how we can proceed on the Doyle front. We’ve been taking out top fighters in the Irish mafia, but we’re still several links of the chain away from the people we need. We’ll loop in Penelope if we have to.” Aaron didn’t want it to come to that point; he had only initially decided to exclude Garcia because he knew she would not be able to keep the secret from Reid, Morgan, and Rossi, and he did not want to place her in such a compromising position, nor did he want to put her in danger.  _

_ “Don’t,” Prentiss said. “I don’t want her in that position.” _

_ Aaron didn’t question her. “Fine. We  _ are _ working on it,” he promised. “We’re going to have you alive again one day.” He wasn’t sure when, but it would happen eventually. “In the meantime, try to put a cork in the calls—please.” _

_ “Sure. Since you know now, I’ll tell her to call you instead to talk about her boy drama.” _

_ “Whatever it takes.”  _

“Fine,” Aaron said in return to her. “You’ve made your point. What would you like to know?” 

She arched an eyebrow. “What exactly are you planning to do here, Hotch?” He found it hard to hold her gaze, because that was a question he did not have an answer for. He knew what he  _ wanted _ , but he was accustomed by now to not getting what he wanted, to never getting what he wanted, and he would always prioritize Spencer over himself because this was Spencer’s first of anything and Aaron was damaged goods. He shifted his jaw. “Do you  _ love _ him? Do you want to be with him?” Love was not a word Aaron would toss freely into this conversation. It had been a week—granted, not a week on a regular timeline, but still only a week. “Are you just leading him on?” 

This provoked a response. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Are you sure? Do you know what you’re risking here?”

“My career, I know that.”  _ I know that Spencer doesn’t want to do this because he’s afraid of losing my career. _ It pained Aaron to think. Gideon had told him it was a job, jobs were a dime a dozen. Would he give up this job for Spencer? He was certainly willing to risk it, or else he wouldn’t have put himself in this position. “We’re still discussing it.”

Prentiss scoffed. “I’m not talking about your career! I’m talking about us, about this team.” She pointed out the window where the blinds were open, gesturing below to the team in the bullpen. Someone had put a sparkly sequined rainbow fedora on Spencer’s head, and he kept trying to take it off, and Morgan squished it back on. “If you hurt him, or if you go about this the wrong way, this team will  _ never _ trust you again. Do you realize that? You’re already lucky if you don’t lose Morgan. You know what he’s going to think.”

Aaron’s neck stiffened. “I’m aware.”

“So how are you planning on handling it?”

“We haven’t talked that far yet. Spencer wants to wait until we’re under less duress, and I can’t say I disagree with that assessment.” Aaron’s anxiety still wanted to wrap his whole body around Spencer’s like a giant kevlar and trap him in a locked and padded cell until this monster was dead or incarcerated, preferably dead. 

“And after that?”  _ I just told you, we don’t have an after that ready yet. _ “What do you want?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“What does that mean?” Prentiss pressed, and if Aaron weren’t afraid of her telling someone else, he might have thrown her from his office for insubordination, but she had knowledge over him now, and he could not afford to jeopardize that. “Do you care about him? Or are you keeping him close right now because you’re concerned about him and you’re going to kick him to the curb when he’s safe?”

He stiffened. “I care about him!” he snapped, and she blinked in surprise at the abrupt shift in his demeanor. She didn’t relent or yield by taking a step back—she never did. Prentiss, of all people, was not afraid of him. That was one of the things he liked about her. Quieter, he added, “I did everything I did because of him.  _ Before _ we knew what was happening.” He had no doubt that he cared wholeheartedly and genuinely for Spencer. He had pulled Spencer’s body to his in that graveyard and allowed Spencer to kiss him, breathing warmth into his mouth, and then he’d asked if Spencer would share a bed with him—this was what he wanted.

Prentiss’s expression softened, less angry and confrontational now, somehow more tender, which was not a way he ever would have expected her to look at him. “Are you concerned that he will change his mind when this is over?” 

He didn’t like this, her pressing him for his emotions. Of all the people he would have chosen to confide in, Prentiss was not at the top of the list.  _ But maybe she should’ve been. _ She had gone through this before. “It has crossed my mind.”

She frowned. “Well, he’s not going to. He’s completely smitten with you.” She asserted this without hesitation and without question. “He trusts you wholeheartedly. Not to hurt him, to protect him—”

“Yeah, I know.”  _ That’s part of the problem. _

“You don’t think we can keep him safe?”

Aaron crossed his arms. “I have my doubts.” Prentiss made it a collaborative, a  _ we _ , could  _ we _ keep him safe, but to Aaron, there was no team. It was his duty to protect Spencer, just as it had been his duty to protect Haley. He would not make the same mistakes with Spencer he had made before, but—that didn’t mean all of this wasn’t its own error. “My track record for protecting people who matter to me isn’t very good.” 

She tilted her head. “I think it’s better than you give yourself credit for… especially where Reid is concerned.” He looked back at her dubiously. “We never would have gotten him from Hankel in time if it weren’t for you. You safely got the cure to the anthrax that saved him. You saved Morgan from himself—you saved Penelope from her shooter—you went to the ends of the earth to save this job for JJ because you knew that was what she wanted. And god only knows everything you did to save me when I never would’ve done that to save myself, consequences be damned.”

He knew she had hated him for a long time, had resented him for the decisions he had made to protect her. For a time, he had resented himself. He had watched Spencer come unglued in Morgan’s arms when they walked past her empty desk in the bullpen, his face burying into Morgan’s chest as he sobbed—not for the first time, not for the last time. He had visited Rossi, crying into his scotch and drinking heavily, admitting in a whisper,  _ “I feel like I lost my daughter.” _ He had ducked into Garcia’s office to find her typing furiously with one hand, wiping away her tears with another,  _ insisting _ that she could find him,  _ swearing _ she wouldn’t stop until he was dead, no matter how Aaron ordered her to stop, told her it put her in danger—she didn’t care. He’d approached Seaver, pale and numb, as she stared at the floor and whispered,  _ “Is this my fault? Would this have been different if I weren’t here?”  _ and Aaron promised her it wouldn’t have been, but the doubt was enough to change her mind—she didn’t want to be in the BAU anymore. 

It was hard not to resent himself for the decision he had made when he saw them all suffer in that way. But Prentiss was alive now, and she was grateful, and Aaron was glad to have her here—even if she was shoehorning in on his personal life, accusing him of taking advantage of Spencer and delivering T-shirts with weird, ugly color patterns displaying his sexual orientation across the chest in bold print. 

“I don’t see it that way.”  _ I wasn’t able to save Haley when it mattered the most. _

“Because you remember your failures and never your successes.” Prentiss’s brows furrowed. “You know that thing Gideon used to do, where he kept a picture of every person he had saved? His list of reasons to keep doing this?” Aaron nodded. “I think that’s something you need to consider. That you’ve helped a lot more people than you’ve lost.  _ That’s  _ what Spencer sees in you. Even if you don’t see that in yourself.” Aaron inclined his eyebrows and dropped his gaze to the floor. “So I’ll ask you again. What do you want out of this?”

Aaron could name a million things. He wanted to keep Spencer wrapped in his embrace, wanted to wake up to him every morning, wanted to cook breakfast for him and brew his coffee for him and comb his hair for him, wanted to see him with Jack—oh, everything he wanted was so domestic and so goddamn painfully out of reach. None of that could come true, at least not with the way things were right now, and not before he actually talked to Spencer about it and felt out his expectation on this front. “I want Spencer to be happy.” That was his first priority. “No matter if I’m included in that scheme or not.” 

“But you want to be with him.”

He ground his teeth. There was no point in lying, as much as he wanted to. “I… I think I’d like that. If that’s what he desires. It’s his experience.”

“It’s also yours.” 

“I’ve done this before. He hasn’t. I don’t want to pressure him into a direction he isn’t comfortable going.” 

“You’re talking about one of the most stubborn men I’ve ever met—and one who looked like he wanted to eat your ass for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before we all gave him the shock of his life. I don’t think you need to worry about pressuring him for a damn thing.” 

Prentiss had a point there. But still… “I think there are alternatives that would be better for him in the long run. I don’t know if he has considered that yet, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings by suggesting it.” 

“What alternatives?” Aaron shrugged. He didn’t want to elaborate. “Someone younger? He’s been around people older than him his whole life. He’d feel trapped if he was in a relationship with someone his own age. He’s been telling JJ how badly he wants kids since Henry was born, so that can’t be a concern for you—”  _ I didn’t know about that, actually. _ It did lift something from Aaron’s shoulders. “And if anyone is going to be good for him, it’s someone who knows the path he’s had to walk footstep by footstep. Do you have any idea how hard it would be for him to get to know someone as well as he knows all of us? To give a stranger that level of trust and intimacy? It couldn’t be replicated.” Aaron sighed. “And I know you didn’t ask for my opinion on any of this, but I think he’s good for you, too.” Aaron looked at her, taken aback by this pronouncement, in part because he didn’t know anyone paid that close of attention to him and in part because he didn’t know what Prentiss thought he had to gain from being with Spencer. “You smile when you’re with him. I don’t know if you’ve realized that. I’ve seen you smile more in the past week than I have for months at a time—and given everything that’s going on, I know that’s a novelty.” 

Aaron accepted it with a nod. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Are you going to tell him that I know?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You should,” Prentiss said. “You won’t get very far if you start out founding this relationship on secrets.” A crease appeared upon his brow. She had a point. “You’re welcome for the shirt, by the way.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to wear this.”

“Only when we drag you to pride.”

“I’m not going to pride.”

“Oh, we’re taking you to pride. Penelope can be very persuasive.” Aaron shook his head, but then he glanced out the window again to where Garcia and JJ were fitting Spencer with a rainbow-splattered cape to match the hideous hat and— _ Are those socks with rainbow dicks on them? _ Prentiss chuckled when she saw them. “Oh, yeah, those were Morgan’s idea.” Spencer was red with shame, but he was laughing, and as Morgan picked him up and twirled him around, he landed dizzily in Rossi’s arms, his grin never wavering. Prentiss glanced back at him, approaching his office door. “Be careful with him, alright?” 

Aaron nodded. He wouldn’t dream of anything else. She let herself out, and the door closed quietly behind her. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Please let me know if you're sticking with this piece. <3

“All night I stretched my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone,  _ Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces.  _ Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.” -Richard Siken

...

Seven excruciating days passed. 

Aaron counted every one. 

This one had ended—the end of the eighth day. Eighty percent of the time Strauss had given him to investigate this case was gone down the drain with nothing to show for it. In the round table room, they had rolled in a second board to hold all of the case evidence gathered over the five years of murders across the country, but there seemed to be no common denominators. No apparent links in flight records that Garcia could find, but thousands upon thousands of people flew commercial every day—even she could not sift through that kind of information, information of that magnitude, without more qualifying factors. It was simply impossible for her to narrow anything down. 

They had their profile. White male, twenty-five to thirty-five years old, at least six feet tall but probably taller, gay, someone who partook in parkour and was extremely physically fit, someone with an interest in visual art. The rest was a tossup. Rossi insisted he had to be someone awkward, uncomfortable, and quiet in his daily life, someone angry at the developments he saw in Spencer’s life. Morgan countered that perhaps he was confident and suave and aggravated that Spencer didn’t see it. 

“And I think our age could be off,” Morgan said, glancing sideways at Aaron. “If all of this started because this guy was upset that Reid was harmed by Hankel, that’s someone who feels protective of him, who feels like it’s his duty to guard him, who maybe sees him as an object of his possession rather than an equal. This guy could be a lot older than him and still think he’s got a shot with him as a sexual or romantic partner, especially with the way he’s been taking advantage of his victims. An older guy could think he has a shot with Reid.”

Aaron wasn’t sure what he said in response to that, but apparently it didn’t betray anything, because Morgan didn’t scrutinize him. In spite of Morgan’s obliviousness, he could not chase away the rumbling in his head,  _ He knows, he knows, he knows! _ The blood rushed through Aaron’s ears and deafened him, and his hands ached and trembled, causing him to massage them to try to restore function. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. They had  _ nothing— _

They were trying. Morgan had canvassed gyms and parkour clubs. Prentiss and JJ explored museums and art communities, even colleges. All yielded a handful of names, but Garcia dug into every one and found nothing incriminating. Reid insisted he knew no one who matched the profile, and Aaron trusted him. He trusted him the same way he trusted the sound of his sleepy voice every night on the phone—Spencer mumbling to him as he drifted off, because Aaron had made him promise to call before bed and ensure his safety, and he did it without complaining. 

Some of the police reports were incomplete, but the ones with complete evidence did not elucidate the case. Rossi even forwarded things to Gideon and Max Ryan illicitly, requesting a second set of eyes, and neither saw any clues or hints as to the direction they needed to be taking this case. 

And the day was over. 

Tomorrow began day nine. 

He had two more days to catch this guy before the director would declare the stalker inactive and would classify this as a cold case and force them to resume normal investigation. It made his stomach flip and pulse with nausea. How could they ever return to normal function without knowing the identity of the man who did this? While knowing he was still out there? How could they ever hope to keep Spencer safe?  _ We’ve been giving him attention… that’s what he wants. _ If they took the attention off of the unsub, he’d strike again, eager to get it back. And he would hurt Spencer. Aaron couldn’t stand to think of the possibility. 

Aaron rifled through the papers upon his desk. Spencer waited outside in the bullpen—Aaron glanced up occasionally to watch him through the glass, to ensure he hadn’t taken off anywhere. They hadn’t had the opportunity to be together much, not in person. Aaron could never stay. He had to pick up Jack from Jessica’s. Today, he’d asked Jessica to keep Jack for dinner. He still hadn’t talked to Spencer about Prentiss, and he wanted to do that sooner rather than later, wanted to make sure Spencer heard it from him rather than someone else and thought Aaron had been keeping a secret from him. Prentiss was right; he didn’t want to found this relationship upon secrets. 

And he wanted to talk about the future. He knew Spencer would probably dissuade him, would tell him not to consider it while their stress was so high, but Aaron  _ wanted _ to. He wanted Spencer to tell him what he expected from day eleven, when Strauss pulled this case out from under them and forced them to resume life as normal as if none of this had ever happened. Did Spencer want to forget this? Did he want to continue? What were his ideals for his future? All these questions Aaron wanted to ask—he  _ needed _ those answers. 

Mostly, he needed to hear Spencer say  _ no. _ He suspected that was what Spencer would do, tell him  _ no, _ tell him he had to prioritize his career, tell him he had to take care of the team. That was what Spencer had told him in the first place, after all, before the stalker struck, and Aaron had no reason to suspect he had changed his answer.  _ “As of tomorrow, none of this happened, right?” _ Spencer had asked him, and something inside of Aaron had shattered.  _ “It’s not what I want, but I don’t want either of us to lose our jobs. It would soil your reputation in the bureau. I don’t want you to jeopardize your future for me.” _

Right now, Spencer’s future was the one in jeopardy. But Aaron still needed to silence that voice inside of him that told him he had any chance of a future with Spencer, that domestic voice that wanted to pour sugar in Spencer’s coffee in the morning and tie his tie for him the way it belonged (Spencer always tied a four-in-hand, and Aaron preferred a full Windsor for the level of formality associated with this work) and help him comb his hair the way he wanted it. Aaron craved domesticity, perhaps because he hadn’t had it in so long—not since Haley had left. 

Being with Spencer made parts of him miss Haley in ways he didn’t know were possible. 

It wasn’t that Spencer reminded him of Haley. Two people could not have been more different than those two. But rather, that remembering his body could touch another person’s, could hold another person’s, brought back all of those memories of him with her and made it more bittersweet. Some part of him melted with guilt on the inside, like infidelity—as if he could be unfaithful to a woman who had died two years ago and divorced him two years before that. It was illogical, but his stomach whirled with it, the sensation of  _ wrongness _ , the way he had always looked at overly curious baristas and waitresses and drummed his wedding ring on the table or said,  _ “I’m married.” _ Logic knew he had no more commitment to Haley, that she had severed that commitment by her own choice long before she knew any of this would happen to them, and that she would never be so spiteful to hold this against him.

Oh, sure, Aaron was quite certain when he made it to whatever was on the other side, she was going to kick his entire ass for the way she had died, and he wouldn’t argue with her, because that was ten kinds of his fault.

But she wouldn’t spite him for being with Spencer. She would celebrate that he had found happiness she could not give him. As much as Aaron wanted to deny it, he hadn’t felt happy with Haley for as many years as she hadn’t felt happy with him. They experienced mutual dissatisfaction, and only one of them was courageous enough to do something about it. Haley would be  _ so glad _ he had found someone who gave him those butterflies again, who made him laugh and smile (as Prentiss had reported, even under these horrible conditions), who made him think about what a future would be like if they ever made it that far. Haley would be thrilled for him to have someone again, to love someone again.

_ Love. _

Prentiss had asked him,  _ “Do you  _ **_love_ ** _ him?”  _ and Aaron had no answer for that. Now it had been two weeks. Two weeks. Did he have an answer? 

If he was going to love someone, it would be Spencer. But… answering that question without being able to  _ talk _ to Spencer about it was difficult. Making himself available for that type of commitment, that type of vulnerability, it stung when he knew Spencer could change his mind. 

_ What if I’m only his awakening?  _ Aaron asked himself. After all, Aaron had known after developing a huge crush on the theater teacher at boarding school—a stunning, well-kept man in his late thirties with blue eyes like Frank Sinatra’s. To impress him, Aaron had joined the community theater. That was where he met Haley. Aaron remembered the man vividly, that period of confusion when he realized he liked him  _ and _ Haley, and that was weird, did people really like  _ both?  _ because he’d never heard of anything like that before. A much older man had made Aaron realize he was attracted to men, but if that man had pursued him, it would have been creepy and wrong and frightening for Aaron. 

Was that what he was doing to Spencer?

_ There’s a bit of a difference between being fourteen and being thirty,  _ Aaron reminded himself patiently. Spencer was a smart man, quite a bit smarter than Aaron, and a grown adult who had been responsible for himself and for his mother since he was a child. He was not naive. Aaron could not prey upon him—or perhaps, if he had truly desired it, he could have, but he did not desire it, and he would not let it happen. They were on equal footing, as much as they could be with their respective positions. 

Aaron massaged his sinuses, willing the stress headache to go away. Overthinking everything would do him no good. He just needed to talk to Spencer, and he would talk to him tonight, and everything would be more clear, and then he could focus more energy on this case and how he could somehow manage to solve it in two days. 

His phone binged. Spencer’s name lit up the screen, and Aaron expected it to be him asking when he would come down—it was long past time for them to leave, after all, and Aaron was still organizing things in his office. He picked it up and opened the conversation.

💙Spencer💙:  _ Heads up, Strauss is coming your way. _

A Hotchner:  _ Dammit. Thanks.  _

💙Spencer💙:  _ You’re welcome. _ ❤️

Aaron smiled at his phone. He didn’t think Spencer had ever sent him an emoticon before, and with Spencer’s lacking knowledge of technology, it made him tingle inside that Spencer had sent him something so personal. 

Sure enough, as Spencer had warned him, a knock came to the door, and Aaron put his phone down facedown on the table and donned his poker face again as she entered. He stood from behind his desk. “Ma’am.” 

“Where are you on the stalker case?” 

“We’re developing a preliminary profile.” It meant,  _ We don’t have shit and we need more time, _ and Strauss knew it and Aaron knew that she knew it and neither one of them would call him out on it. “With the low risk nature of the victims, evidence collected from the crime scenes was incomplete at best. We’re working within our means.”

“Agent Hotchner, I don’t mean this offensively, so please don’t take it that way. If it were up to me, every unit in my section would be working this case until this man is caught. However, it is not up to me, and the director is breathing down my neck demanding some results from what he thinks is a sad misuse of one of his best units, so for him, I ask, do you have anything concrete? Anything at all that I can show him to prove that this case is going to yield some results?” 

Aaron blinked, bracing both of his hands against the front of his desk. “Would he like the pictures of the head that was left in Dr. Reid’s hotel room, or do you think he would prefer the graffiti painted on the wall in blood calling him a slur?”

“Do not be short with me, Aaron. I am on your side here, and I am trying to buy you more time to catch this son of a bitch.” Aaron didn’t think he had ever heard her swear before. “The case files requesting the assistance of the BAU are piling up. The director is under immense strain to put your team back in the field. He needs proof that he isn’t wasting resources on this case.” 

“There are more than forty bodies associated with this case. This is one of the more prolific killers we’ve handled, maybe the most prolific since Gideon left. And one of this team was targeted.” Aaron’s blood pressure was rising high enough that he knew Spencer would panic if he saw the number. “What more criteria must we meet for the director to think this case deserves our attention?” 

Aaron commended Strauss. He never could have played the political game as effectively as she did. In fact, on more than one occasion, Aaron had resisted the urge to plant his hands around the director’s throat and slowly squeeze the life out of him, wait for him to be near passing out, to feel that utter, frigid cold that came with suffocation, and then release him and say,  _ “That’s what the victims of these crimes felt before they died. Do you still think we shouldn’t investigate?” _ but he would never do that because he liked his job and he liked not being unemployed. 

“You know it isn’t that simple. These are low risk victims. Low payoff if we solve the crime, low reputation boost for the director.” 

“And with all due respect, I didn’t enter law enforcement to bolster the director’s undeservedly smug ego, and neither did my team.” 

“I know that. The director takes credit for all of our hard work unfairly.” It was true; Strauss ran the most effective section in the entire bureau, and Aaron didn’t think he had ever heard her receive any laud or honor for her work. The credit unjustifiably went to the director. “That said, I  _ still _ will need his approval to keep you on this case for more than ten days. It’s going to be a gamble, no matter the evidence I provide, but I’m going to do my best. I don’t want to see Dr. Reid hurt any more than you do. Your unit has been through enough these past few years.” 

Aaron cleared his throat. “I know.” He scanned Strauss once, twice, wondering if she suspected something— _ no, _ he decided,  _ she couldn’t possibly. _ Strauss was not a profiler, and she had enough family issues of her own without trying to insert herself into the drama of the BAU. She would not become aware of the inner workings of their drama unless they told her, and he had no intentions of doing that. “I’ll forward you every case file, our preliminary profile, and the leads we’ve followed so far. Nothing has panned out yet, but a lead that doesn’t pan out is one more road we don’t have to keep following.”

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.”

“Thank you, ma’am. How much longer are you aiming to get us?” Aaron would feel better if he knew how much time he was going to have to work with, if he was able to tell his team how much longer they would have to fix this problem, solve this case, and keep Spencer safe. 

She looked up at him. “How much do you need?”

_ Until he’s captured. _ Aaron knew he could not request resources to investigate this case indefinitely. It would destroy Strauss’s credibility in the bureau to make such a request, and would annihilate his reputation in the process if she did it on his behalf. Neither of them would have any leg to stand on in the eyes of the upper management of the bureau, and Strauss would lose her negotiating power. “Can you make two weeks happen?” 

“I can shoot for ten days.” 

Ten more days. Aaron could work with that. It was better than only two days, after all. “Thank you.” 

“Between you and me?” He met her eyes. “I am really far out on a limb with this.  _ Please _ catch this guy, and please do it quietly in such a way that does not put your unit back in front of the board of directors trying to decide whether or not they need to terminate one or all of you. Do you think you can manage that?” 

Aaron nodded. “We will certainly try our best,” he promised. After all, he didn’t think any of them had  _ intended  _ to wind up in front of the board of the directors at any point in the last three years. It had always happened by mistake—mistake after terrible mistake led to those confrontations, and any of them would have gone to great lengths to avoid the outcome if given the opportunity. 

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner. Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

She left his office, and Aaron watched through the window as she headed down the stairs into the bullpen. She nodded to Spencer as she passed, and he shrank back away from her and returned the nod. He lifted a hand to the back of his head and played with his hair, turning to look up at Aaron through the blinds of his window with a small, sheepish smile upon his face. 

Once a minute had passed and Aaron trusted she would not return, he collected his things and headed down the stairs toward Spencer. “What was that about?”

“She’s trying to extend the amount of time we’re allotted on this case and needed more evidence to present to the director.”

Spencer frowned, keeping stride with Aaron with a bit of a struggle, his arms stiff at his sides. “The forty bodies with blood art and decapitated heads weren’t enough to convince him this case deserves our attention?”

“Apparently not, and he’s breathing down Strauss’s neck to get us back on the growing stack of cases that require our attention.” 

“Oh.” Spencer checked his watch. “Do you need me to catch a ride? You’re going to be late to get Jack.” He fidgeted with the strap of his satchel as they entered the elevator. He always fidgeted in the elevator, and Aaron understood why; he didn’t particularly care for them himself. 

Aaron shook his head. “I asked Jessica to keep Jack for dinner tonight.” Spencer looked sideways at him in surprise, blinking, taken aback by his assertion, and Aaron wondered if perhaps he should’ve given Spencer a bit more warning before dropping this on him as a surprise. As the elevator doors drew closed and Aaron trusted no one could overhear them, he said, “I thought I might spend a few hours with you.” 

Again, Spencer said, “Oh.”

Aaron looked at him, deferring. “Is that okay?” 

Spencer nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I—I’d like that.” He gave a small smile, and Aaron gave him a soft look in return. The space between their bodies was warm and appetizing, but cameras upon them prevented them from drawing any nearer together; they did not have audio capability, but that didn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things. Anyone could see them exchange the wrong look or brush too close to one another and realize and then they were doomed, doomed before they ever had a chance to figure out what this was, what they were doing, what they meant to one another. Eyes straight ahead, Spencer maintained a careful, neutral expression. “I missed you,” he said.

Aaron’s heart pulsed in desperate aching. He missed Spencer, too, every night that he listened to Spencer’s sleepy voice on the phone before he fell asleep. He missed the way his arms fit around Spencer’s body and the weight of him sprawled across his chest. The weight helped a lot. Which reminded Aaron—“The blanket helps.” 

It did help. He hadn’t had nearly as many nightmares since he began using it. He awoke in the morning cradled beneath it, feeling secure and safe, a feeling Aaron had not known many times throughout his life—he surely had not known it growing up, when he shared his twin bed with Sean. He had wrapped up around him with his back to the rest of the room, Sean against the wall, so if someone went to grab at them, they would take Aaron, not Sean, and neither of them could be dragged out of bed without waking the other. He had slept with one eye open until he left home, and by then, it was not a habit that could be unlearned. 

Awakening while feeling safe? That was unusual for Aaron, especially considering the circumstances. But it didn’t change the panic he felt every morning when he came to, all safe and bundled up in this extra heavy blanket Spencer had given him, and he realized he hadn’t heard Spencer’s voice in six or seven hours and  _ oh my god,  _ what if something had happened to him? And he couldn’t help but call him before he even rolled out of bed. 

“I’m glad.”

Spencer always answered his calls, too. Aaron appreciated that. Perhaps he understood Aaron’s anxiety about this situation and sought to accommodate it.  _ Maybe he just wants to hear my voice.  _ Aaron doubted it was the latter, but he could still think about it and feel happy internally. 

The road home was silent except for a low hum of Johnny Cash over the radio, Spencer’s hand on Aaron’s knee and Aaron’s hand on top of it. 

It was a comfortable silence. 

Spencer broke it. “I have to get some things from the store tomorrow. It’s Cheryl’s birthday.”

“Okay,” Aaron said. He hesitated, and then he pressed, “Did you talk to her? About not letting strangers into your apartment at their request?”

Spencer inclined his eyebrows. “Yeah. I did. She only let you in because you had a badge.”

“Anyone can get a fake badge.”

“I know, and I told her that, too. Only you and JJ. If anybody else shows up, she’ll throw them out… metaphorically speaking.”

Aaron breathed a slight chuckle in spite of the gravity of the conversation. It amused him in a way, this small old woman who had apparently bonded with Spencer over their existence as neighbors. “She called me  _ young man. _ I don’t know that anyone has ever called me that before in my whole life.” Maybe, when he was prepubescent, but he hit six feet when he was fourteen and he didn’t stop there, and after that, hardly anyone ever looked at him and saw a  _ young man. _ He was hardened by a painful life. It gave him a stern face, a resting command. Other people had started seeing a leader upon his face before he had facial hair. 

“She isn’t afraid of anything. She has nerves of steel.”

This was not the first time Spencer had expressed such a sentiment. Aaron wondered how he knew about it. “You know that from talking to her?” 

Spencer shrugged. “A little.” 

Aaron recalled that Spencer had avoided the question when asked how he met Cheryl, and like before, he became reticent now.  _ How did they meet? _ It was just curiosity, not information he  _ needed _ to have access to, so he didn’t press the matter. Spencer would tell him if he wanted to, and if he didn’t, maybe he’d eventually get to know Cheryl well enough and she would tell him. Maybe she wouldn’t, and Aaron would always have a bit of curious wondering. “So what do you like about her?” he asked instead. After all, Spencer didn’t have friends. Aaron found it hard to imagine him deliberately seeking out the company of another person, especially an older person like that. 

Spencer considered. “She has a cat,” he said first. “The cat does the—the deep pressure therapy on your chest when she knows you’re upset. I think that was why I started hanging around.” Aaron nodded. Spencer had learned from experience how to handle panic—Aaron understood that. It made sense to him. He wondered when it started, when he first knew, and how he started to make it better. “But Cheryl is nice. She doesn’t get too nosy, and she is a really good cook, and she’s lonely.”

“Her kids don’t come around?” Spencer shook his head. “That doesn’t seem very responsible.”

“She’s in her nineties. Her kids are in their late sixties and her youngest grandchild is your age. They’re fairly settled with where they are.”

“Sounds like that’s something she tells herself to feel better about being abandoned as a geriatric.” Aaron couldn’t help but profile this statement, maybe because it bothered him—because he would have given anything in the world to have his mother into her  _ nineties, _ instead of losing her before her fiftieth birthday fewer than five years after his father’s reign of tyranny had finally ended. Aaron had thought his father’s death meant they were free, but it was too late to save his mother. Her health was already doomed from the years of stress. 

Spencer shrugged. “Probably. But if they came around more often, I wouldn’t get to spend time with her, and I like her.” 

Aaron squeezed his hand. “Then I’m glad.” 

In Spencer’s apartment, Aaron hung up his coat and took off his tie, slipping out of his shoes by the front door, and Spencer went to change, reemerging in a sweater and soft pants. Aaron sat down on the sofa. He looked up at Spencer, holding an arm up over the back of the couch in invitation. Like a beached fish leaping back into the water, Spencer dove into the embrace,  _ dove _ toward him with such force it almost knocked the breath out of Aaron. He turned to stretch his legs out on the couch, propped up on the arm, and Spencer sprawled out on top of him. “You weren’t kidding about missing me.” 

Spencer lifted his head from where he had pressed his face into the crook of Aaron’s neck. “Sorry—did you want to, uh, kiss or something?” 

Aaron chuckled. “Not right now. This is fine.” Spencer settled back against him with a satisfied hum. Under the lights of the apartment, drawn this close to Spencer for the first time in days, Aaron examined his face, the dark exhaustion encircling his eyes. “You’re not sleeping well, are you?” he asked gently. Spencer shook his head into Aaron’s shoulder. “Because of the noise?” He nodded. Aaron touched the back of his neck and massaged it. “We… We need to talk about something.”

Eyelashes fluttered against Aaron’s skin. “What?” 

“If you’d rather nap first while I’m here, that’s fine.” Aaron wanted to give Spencer the opportunity to be as well-rested as he could be. 

Spencer shook his head. “I’m fine.”  _ I shouldn’t have brought it up,  _ Aaron realized too late, because now Spencer’s mind would be occupied with this until he knew what Aaron intended to say. “What is it?” He pushed himself up, almost upright rather than draped over Aaron like a heavy blanket. 

As Aaron initiated this conversation, he realized he had not planned out which direction to take it. “Prentiss,” he said. Spencer blinked, expression betraying nothing but confusion and surprise.  _ She didn’t say anything to him. _ She had promised she wouldn’t, and Aaron was glad she had made good on that promise. “She… knows.”

His eyes widened. “I didn’t tell her, I swear.”

Aaron shook his head. “No, no, I—I didn’t think you did.” What had Spencer expected? An accusation? A rebuke? Aaron couldn’t help but muse on it, but he didn’t ask. That was irrelevant to the conversation he wanted to have here. “She told me she figured it out. I know you didn’t say anything to her.” Aaron touched Spencer’s back to soothe the tension and abrupt stiffness out of his muscles. “I thought it was better for you to hear it from me than from her.”

“Is she going to tell anyone?”

“No, she isn’t.” 

Spencer licked his lips. “Oh.” He bit them hard enough to force the skin to blanche, and Aaron touched his lower lip with his thumb. He offered his hands in exchange, and Spencer took them and folded them the way he liked. “What did she… How did she…” He glanced back up at Aaron, as if to ask for clarification. 

“She was just worried about you.” 

Spencer frowned. “She thought you would take advantage of me?” 

Aaron shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he reassured. Prentiss’s allegations, he supposed, could’ve been interpreted in that way, but Aaron didn’t see them like that. She was concerned about Spencer’s well being, and she feared the honeymoon period would end when Spencer was safe from this monster and Aaron would kick him to the curb. She feared they were on different pages in this relationship and Spencer would get hurt. Hell, Aaron feared that, too. “She… had some questions to ask. About us. She doesn’t want you to be hurt, and neither do I.” 

Spencer blinked slowly. “I don’t think you’re going to hurt me, Aaron.” 

“I know that.”  _ Just because you don’t think it doesn’t mean it won’t happen,  _ chattered a cruel voice inside of Aaron’s head. Aaron had managed to destroy his marriage with his job; he’d lost the most important person to him in the whole world and singlehandedly ruined his son’s childhood. He could entirely inadvertently break Spencer’s heart. “And I know we said we wouldn’t discuss this until later, but… I think it might be wise to start now, before either of us develops expectations.” 

Spencer mused on this postulation for a moment, and then he agreed, “Okay. You start.”

Aaron paused. “I asked first.” 

A strange shadow crossed Spencer’s face. “You want me to go first so you can agree with anything I say,” he said patiently. Aaron swallowed hard; Spencer had seen through his charade. “I want to know what you really want out of this.” 

The rhythm of Spencer’s hands on Aaron’s soothed him in a way. “I don’t want you to feel trapped by what I think,” Aaron said. “I’ll defer to what you want.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I think it is.” 

“That I get whatever I want and you don’t get a say?” 

“I had thought you’d be happy about that.” Aaron’s brow furrowed. “This is your first time… I think it should happen on your terms. Not mine.” Aaron had had all of his firsts. Spencer hadn’t.  _ It’s not my place to determine those things for him,  _ Aaron thought. “I don’t think it’s fair for me to call the shots here.” 

Maybe it was difficult for Spencer. The duration of their relationship had mostly been Aaron calling shots and Spencer obeying—that was how they operated in the field, for the most part, with little variation. Aaron gave a directive, and Spencer followed through. But Aaron didn’t want this to be like that; he didn’t want to be  _ in charge _ here. He hoped Spencer understood. 

Spencer licked his lips, considering, tilting his head. “If I tell you what I think, will you also be honest with me?”

_ Maybe not. _ “Yes.” 

“I don’t believe you.”  _ Profilers are the worst. _ Granted, Aaron knew he had broken Spencer’s trust by his actions with Prentiss in Paris—he’d proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would lie to spare feelings and protect identities, and Spencer knew that, now. 

Aaron would not win this battle of wills, or perhaps he didn’t want to. “Okay,” he agreed, slightly softer than before. “I think…” He had to measure his words, his thoughts, not to say anything that came on too strong or too fast and scare Spencer, who was fickle as a flighty deer peeking its head from the forest to peer at passersby. Spencer’s hands stilled over his to listen intently. “My priority is your happiness,” he said finally. “Whether or not that includes me, I want you to be happy.” Aaron had already had his shot at happiness and shoved it into a Nutribullet and stuck it on high. He wanted to ensure Spencer didn’t do the same. 

“Let’s say it does include you,” Spencer pressed. “What do you want, then?”

He would not relent until he heard Aaron’s desires. Aaron supposed he understood on some level. If their roles were reversed, he could not have made an executive statement without having some feedback from Spencer. He hesitated. “I think…” He didn’t know how to say it in a way that didn’t sound painfully domestic. “I think I would like us to be… us. Together.” Spencer blinked slowly at him, asking for more, some elucidation. “We can take it slow,” Aaron said. “And if that’s not what you want, I’m fine with that.”

“It is,” Spencer said quickly, too quickly. “It is… what I want.” He traced the lines of Aaron’s palms with his fingertips. 

Aaron sensed an objection would follow up. “But?”

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to his and then back down. “I don’t think I’m worth jeopardizing your career.”

“I’m not worried about my career.”

“Maybe you should be.” Aaron frowned. “You’ve been leading the BAU since I was seventeen years old. I don’t want you to throw that away because of me.” He followed the soul line of Aaron’s palm with his finger. “I want to be with you, just not… not at the cost of your job.”

_ My job? _ Aaron could do a million things for work. He could transfer out of the BAU. He could step down as unit chief and yield the position to Morgan or Prentiss. He could go back to practicing law—hell, he’d probably make more money doing that, have more regular hours, be a better father to Jack, as unhappy as it would make him. He could become a prosecutor. “You let me worry about my career.” 

Spencer sucked the inside of his cheek. “There are rules.”

“Rossi is trying to overturn them. He’s the reason they were created.”

“Yes, the workplace fraternization rules, but you’re still my direct superior.”

“Then I’ll step down.”

“I don’t want you to do that for me.” Aaron’s brow twitched. He didn’t understand. “I don’t mean this offensively,” Spencer said, quieter, “and I’m not really in a place to judge, and maybe I don’t understand, but… don’t you think it’s a little naive to want to sacrifice this for a relationship that’s been going on for fifteen days?” 

Aaron looked away. Naive was a word for it. “I don’t think we should let that keep us apart. And if it causes problems, we can solve them as they arise… I think it’s unwise to try to resolve issues that might not ever become points of contention.” 

Spencer’s jaw shifted. He licked his lips and nodded slowly. “I… If that’s how you feel, I respect that.” He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “If your career is harmed because of me, I don’t want to know how much that would hurt.” 

Aaron gently took one hand away from Spencer’s grasp, drawing his attention to look up at him. He took Spencer’s chin with his index finger and tilted his head up, tracing his lips with the roughened pad of his thumb. “If my career is damaged, that will be because of decisions I made. Not because of you or anything you did.”

Spencer’s eyes darted away. Aaron trailed his thumb over the ridge of his jawline. “I’ve been thinking about that biology program,” he said. Aaron only distantly remembered it now, that Spencer had contemplated getting another PhD and taking a break from the BAU. “You know… if that would be better. Safer.”

“I don’t think it would be.”

“Are you saying that because you don’t want me to leave the BAU?”

It was the second time Spencer had asked Aaron this question, Aaron recalled; he’d asked it the same way the last time they had conversed on this. But this time, Aaron said, “Yes,” and Spencer’s eyelashes fluttered in surprise. “If the team found out you left the bureau so you could be with me, they would think I twisted your arm into it. They would lose trust in me.”  _ If one of us leaves the BAU, it’s going to have to be me, _ Aaron wanted to say, but he didn’t because he knew it would upset Spencer. But it was the truth. The team would protect Spencer, even from one of their own, and losing him to protect Aaron’s career would shatter their dynamic and impede their ability to investigate appropriately. The unit could not function if they did not trust their leader. 

Spencer considered. “You’re right.” He traced the veins in Aaron’s arms under the long sleeves of his shirt. He closed his eyes as he felt the musculature beneath his fingertips, and from between his parted lips, he exhaled a shaky sound, almost like a mouthed silent prayer. “I…” The silence stretched, and then he finished, “Aaron, I want you. In whatever capacity you’ll have me.” 

Caressing his face, Spencer leaned into Aaron’s palm as he drew his head forward and brushed their lips against one another. Spencer’s hands came up and tangled in his hair, dragging him deeper into the embrace. His open mouth pressed hot against Aaron’s, gasping into his lips, and Aaron opened his mouth in return, feeling the sensation of hands roaming his scalp and yanking at his hair. Spencer panted against him. His body coiled up on top of Aaron’s like a spring. Aaron peppered gentle kisses down the column of Spencer’s throat, and at the hem of his sweater, he tugged it down to expose his collarbones. 

Spencer gasped when Aaron grazed his teeth there. Spencer’s body fit neatly between Aaron’s hands, easy to control, and Aaron moved him as he pleased to bite upon his clavicle and suck until the skin darkened maroon. Spencer gave a shaky laugh, and Aaron pulled away. “You’ve been waiting for weeks to give me another hickey, haven’t you?” 

“Maybe.” 

_ I want you. _ Aaron’s stomach erupted into a swarm of butterflies. Spencer wanted  _ him. _ They were going to do this, whatever this was, and they were going to face it together, and they had a future together, and maybe one day he could put Spencer’s coffee on to brew in the morning and could fold him an omelet with the toppings he liked. 

He felt like a foolish schoolboy again, but he relished in it, in this foolishness, this foolhardy bravery that came with initiating a new relationship. Something about it was exhilarating in a sweet way, a pleasant adrenaline rush—much better than the ones Aaron had felt recently, the ones that occurred when panic clutched at his abdomen and refused to release him from its grasp. “I want you, too,” he whispered. Spencer kissed him in soft earnest, kissing him as he breathed short gasps through his nose, his lips swelling up. His eyelashes brushed Aaron’s skin as he peppered light kisses along his jugular vein. Spencer buried his face there and inhaled deeply, drinking in Aaron’s scent.

Lying here on this couch with Spencer’s mouth folded into his skin, Aaron could think of nothing sweeter. His arms twisted across Spencer’s back and moved up and down the fabric of his sweater, allowing the memory of this sensation to imprint itself upon him… the exact distance between Spencer’s prominent vertebrae, the way his ribs expanded as he inhaled and deflated as he exhaled, the slight twitch he gave when Aaron’s hand roamed a little farther down. Spencer tangled his arms around Aaron’s neck. “Can we stay like this for awhile?” he mumbled into Aaron’s neck. 

“Of course.” 

“Thanks.” Spencer snuggled into Aaron’s body, and Aaron anchored him there with his arms. “When this is over…” He paused to yawn. “Do you want to tell everyone, or… try not to?” 

_ Try  _ was the emphasized word there, and Aaron knew the likelihood of their success was slim. They worked with profilers; it was not as simple as just  _ not telling them. _ They would catch on and find things out, and then they would feel deceived. “I think it’s better to be honest.” 

Spencer nodded. “I want to wait until after, though.”

“That’s fine.” Aaron wanted to continue to lead this case, so it suited him—if they decided to try to kick him off the team, he would already know the person who had done this to Spencer was behind bars, never to emerge again. 

“And… it doesn’t matter for anyone else, but I think I should tell Morgan alone. Or, if you’re there, we’ll need everybody else to, uh, incapacitate him.”

Aaron gave a small half-smile. “I think it’s best if you handle that alone. If I’m there, I’m sure he’ll be filled with blinding rage and much less likely to listen to reason.”

“Mhm.” Spencer yawned. “I hope he’s okay.” 

Rubbing small circles into Spencer’s back with his hand, Aaron breathed in the sweet scent of Spencer’s hair, all cinnamon and spice, not masculine but not feminine either, something purely in between. “He will be,” he promised, and he meant it—Morgan would be fine with this eventually, because he loved Spencer. Maybe he wouldn’t want to work in the BAU anymore, or maybe he’d make a stink and try to upseat Aaron, but at the end of the day, he would still love Spencer and would not think about him any differently. “Get some rest,” he urged Spencer quietly, “while I’m here. I won’t go anywhere.”

Sleepy eyes hung low. “I haven’t gotten to be with you in eight days… Don’t want to waste it.”

“You’re not wasting it. You’ll have sweet dreams.” Aaron reclined, tilting his head back. “And when this is over, we can be together as much as you want.”  _ I’ll talk to Jack. _ He had to talk to Jack. It wasn’t a conversation he had planned on having, at least not any time soon; Jack had brought it up once, last year, about his friend Adrienne and how her daddy had died and her mommy married a new man, but Aaron had reassured him he had no intentions of doing anything in that vein. He had misread the situation entirely, because when he did that, Jack became subdued, a quiet, “ _ Oh. Why not? _ ” and Aaron didn’t have an answer for that, because most of his reasons were not things he would share with an adult, much less a child, much less his own child. 

But that would change. It couldn’t right now; Aaron would not put Spencer under the same roof as Jack when he knew an armed murderer was after him. It was out of the question. But they would catch this man, they  _ had to _ catch this man, and then… 

Then things would change. For the better, he hoped, he prayed.

Spencer dozed off on top of him, and Aaron watched the time pass through the windows of his apartment, the sun collecting lower and lower on the horizon. When he checked his watch and two hours had passed, he cradled Spencer’s body against his and slowly sat up, careful not to disturb him too much. Spencer huffed a little grunt, stirring, but he didn’t awaken. Aaron arranged him in his arms and picked him up. He draped over Aaron’s arms like a ragdoll. He was not heavy, but very long, and easing him through the narrow door frame was a challenge. He managed it. 

Placing him on the bed, Aaron tucked him in—the cover was heavy, too, like the one Spencer had given him. Spencer shivered. Aaron opened the top drawer of his chest and took out a pair of deliberately mismatched socks. He unrolled them and pushed the blanket off of Spencer’s feet to expose them. Picking up one foot, he bunched up the sock and pushed it up over the toes, aligning it with the heel, making sure the seam wouldn’t get underfoot (he had no doubt that would infuriate Spencer). He repeated it with the other foot and then tugged the blanket back over them. 

He smoothed a kiss onto Spencer’s temple and carded his fingers through his hair, and then he drew the curtains and turned off the light and closed the door to ensure darkness for him. 

Spencer’s kitchen was logistically organized, almost everything alphabetized, his pots and pans clean but dusty from disuse. Aaron wiped them out and placed one on the stove with water and chicken bouillon, and he sorted through Spencer’s cabinets, dumping in vegetables as he proceeded. Tomato paste, potatoes, carrots, green beans, corn, baby limas, some milk to make it creamy, spices for a little kick, a can of pineapple, and some dry noodles he found in a bag. 

It was Jack’s favorite soup recipe, and Aaron assumed that if it passed the Jack test, it would probably suit Spencer’s palate, given Spencer was regularly stereotyped as having the taste of a six year old. 

The soup simmered for a long while, and Aaron set the small kitchen table, which also had a layer of dust from disuse. He wondered how often Spencer ate at the table, if ever. The pantry most consisted of grab-and-go snacks and junk food; even his coffee was low quality.  _ Maybe I could teach him to cook something. _ Spencer hadn’t exactly had a great number of role models to teach him things when he was a kid, and Aaron assumed he was allowed to skip home economics—he highly doubted anyone would have allowed a ten year old to sew with a machine, no matter how high his IQ. 

He’d ask, one day, when this was behind them, if Spencer wanted to learn, and regardless of his answer, Aaron would ensure he put healthier meals into his body than what currently occupied his cabinets. 

He set out the cheese and the crackers and gave them each a glass of water—Spencer didn’t have much else to drink in his fridge, no soda, no energy drinks, just a gallon of milk and a jug of pulp free orange juice. As the soup cooled, he washed and put away the things he had used, and when he finished, he noted the sounds of footfalls in the hallway. 

Spencer stood in the doorway, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fists, his mouth half-open in a yawn and eyes heavily lidded. Aaron smiled at him. “Hey, sleepyhead.” 

Spencer approached him, and Aaron opened his arms to catch him by the hips, planting a kiss on his lips. A groggy smile crossed his mouth. “You put socks on me.” Aaron brushed his tangled, sleep-mussed hair behind his ear. “Why’d you do that?” 

“I didn’t want you to be cold.” Aaron kissed the tip of his nose. “Let’s eat.”

“When I woke up,” Spencer admitted, “I thought the neighbors were cooking something that smelled really good.” Aaron chuckled. They sat across from one another at the table, and as Aaron lifted his head to peer across the wood at Spencer, he wondered if this was what forever felt like. 


	20. Chapter 20

“You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.” -Haruki Murakami

...

Aaron awoke with feet in his mouth. 

This was not unusual.

He lay bundled in the weighted blanket Spencer had given him, all wrapped around him swaddling him like an infant, and at some point during the night (though he did not recall it happening, evidence suggested it must’ve), Jack had joined him, and now Jack lay upside down on the bed with his feet in Aaron’s mouth. Jack’s feet smelled like Fritos. 

Before parenthood, everyone had told him to brace himself for the stink of baby feet, the unique sweaty gross smell that could only be mitigated by baby powder or deodorant between the toes. Aaron had never understood that. Sure, baby feet could be a little stinky, but their feet weren’t nearly as bad as their butts, right? Right. And now Jack wasn’t a baby anymore, and his feet smelled like Fritos, and in another universe, he looked over at Haley right now and they exchanged a knowing smile and crept out of bed around Jack and got up together to make breakfast in the kitchen where Haley would put on the showtunes station and Aaron would spin her around and listen to her sing the words to every song. 

But Aaron lived in this universe, where he smelled Jack’s Frito feet alone, burritoed in a blanket given to him by his  _ boyfriend, _ or whatever it was that they considered each other now.  _ Boyfriend _ felt juvenile. Aaron didn’t like it.  _ Spencer. _ He hadn’t heard Spencer’s voice for seven hours.  _ I need to call him. _ He rolled over, careful not to disturb Jack, and took his phone from the night stand, heading up the hallway into the kitchen alone. He put the showtunes station on low. The magic wasn’t the same; he didn’t know as many musicals as Haley did, and he didn’t know as many of the songs, either.

The line rang as he took out the stuff to make them some egg and vegetable muffins for breakfast. Jack didn’t know the egg and vegetable muffin had eggs  _ or _ vegetables in it, so it was an easy way to get things inside of him that he didn’t want to eat. If Aaron called it a muffin, Jack seemed to think he got cake for breakfast, no matter what that cake tasted like. 

One ring. Aaron turned on the oven to preheat. Two rings. He greased the muffin tin. Three rings. He took the eggs and vegetables out of the fridge. Four rings. He stopped, waited, and listened— _ it’s never gone past four rings before, he always answers by the fourth ring, he always— _ Five rings. Aaron’s heart leapt into his throat, and the world closed in tightly around him. Six rings. 

Spencer’s voice breached the silence, but not in the way Aaron wanted to hear it. “You’ve reached Dr. Spencer Reid. If you are calling related to the FBI and criminal investigation, please press one. If you are looking for a guest lecturer or have academic inquiries, please press two. Leave your name and number, and I’ll get back with you as soon as I can.”

Aaron would’ve laughed. He hadn’t heard Spencer’s voicemail before, and he had no doubt that Garcia had helped him set it up (or, more likely, had done it for him, including writing the script). It amused him, except it couldn’t amuse him, because he had heard the voicemail and that meant Spencer  _ hadn’t answered _ and Aaron was still listening to the silence after the beep where he needed to leave a message but he couldn’t leave a message because he couldn’t speak around the tightness in his throat.

He pressed  _ end call _ and called back immediately, tossing the chopped vegetables into the greased muffin tin as he worked. He divided the vegetables and the cheese over the tin, and then he took out a bowl to mix up the eggs, milk, and spices, whipping them with too fast motions.  _ He’s fine, he’s gotta be fine, he might’ve overslept, he might’ve gone to get his mail, he might’ve gotten caught up in the hallway talking to Cheryl, it’s Cheryl’s birthday today, I’m sure that’s what it is, I’m sure— _ “You’ve reached Dr. Spencer Reid—”

Again, he pressed  _ end call. _ His hands quaked.  _ Fuck. _ The oven beeped. He jumped, gasping aloud in surprise, and whirled around to face the appliance, like it had developed sentience and intended to harm him with it. Licking his lips, he opened the oven and slid the muffins inside, setting the timer for twenty-three minutes.  _ I need to brush my teeth. I’ll brush my teeth, and then I’ll call him again while I’m getting dressed, and then I have to wake Jack up— _

It didn’t work the way he planned. He brushed his teeth listening to the rings, and the more he called, the fewer rings the phone gave. “You’ve reached—” Aaron cursed through his white toothpaste spittle and called again. “You’ve reached—” He shaved in the mirror, a fruitless effort as his trembling hands caused him to nick himself again and again and again. After the fourth nick, he washed off the shaving cream and stared at himself in the mirror. His scruffy, unkempt appearance caught him off guard. He hadn’t succeeded in removing much of his stubble, and the places that were bare looked as if he’d fought a cat with his face. “You’ve reached—” His hands refused to cooperate with the buttons of his shirt. He managed the top one, but when he fumbled the second, the first came undone.  _ I’ll just have to wear a polo. _ He abhorred wearing polos to work, but there were days when buttons were impossible. “You’ve reached—”

“Daddy?” As Aaron hit  _ end call _ , Jack rubbed his sleepy eyes with his fists, gazing up at him from below where he stretched out under Aaron’s blanket. “Need help?” 

Something soft mixed with all of the terror and anxiety boiling over inside of Aaron, and his hands dropped from the front of his shirt where his fingers refused to cooperate with him. The tremor did not leave his aching hands, even when inactive. “You want to help me, buddy?” 

“Mhm.” Jack crawled out from under the heavy blanket. Aaron sat beside him on the bed, and Jack’s clumsy fingers started just below his chin, carefully picking at the small buttons one by one. Jack was slow, but he didn’t get frustrated. “I can help Daddy.” Jack’s little hands snapped his buttons into place one by one, all the way down to the tails of the shirt. 

Aaron’s heart squeezed, wondering what had made him so tender—neither Aaron nor Haley were such tender people. Wherever Jack’s softness had come from, it wasn’t genetic. “Yes, you can. You know I need help sometimes.” Jack nodded as he yawned, and Aaron put his arms around him. Jack burrowed into his embrace. His hair smelled like green apple shampoo. Aaron inhaled the scent deeply and kissed the top of his head. “Did you sleep well?” Jack nodded into his chest. “You’re still sleepy, though, aren’t you?” 

“Mhm.” 

“Why’d you get in bed with me? Did you have a bad dream?” 

Jack had nightmares. His therapist had expressed to Aaron the importance of dealing with them, and Aaron did his best, but it was hard when those nightmares were the same as Aaron’s own. And unlike Jack, Aaron didn’t have a therapist (he had tried for four miserable weeks, but trying to tell a stranger about his shitty life was just a pain in the ass, and he couldn’t stop reflexively lying to her to make her think he was okay, which ultimately made the whole venture a waste of money), and he didn’t have a way to express his dreams in art (Jack had a dream journal that they went through together sometimes, looping in the therapist as need be). 

Jack shook his head. “Nuh-uh. Just missed you. Like your blanket.” Aaron cradled the back of Jack’s head and caressed his soft blonde hair. Jack’s touch made the ache seem more distant. “Is that okay?” Jack asked softer, an afterthought. 

Aaron blinked in surprise. “Of course, buddy, you’re welcome to sleep with me whenever you want.” 

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight.” Jack made a happy little sound, prepared to curl up in Aaron’s lap like a cat. Aaron nudged him. “C’mon, it’s time to get ready for school. Go brush your teeth and your hair and get dressed. I’ve got breakfast in the oven.”

The mention of the oven perked Jack right up. “Muffins?” he asked, eyes shining like obsidian pulled from the depths of the earth. Aaron nodded. “Yay!” 

Aaron ruffled his hair. “Go on, if you want breakfast. We want to get to school on time, don’t we?” Jack nodded and rushed off. 

Aaron stood and pulled on his dress pants, tucking his shirt tails into them and snapping them together in front, pulling his belt taut. He touched Spencer’s name on the phone to dial again. He pulled out a new tie from the closet and tied it in a four-in-hand, not his preferred knot—he preferred a full Windsor, but he doubted his hands could tolerate such a long and fine motion this morning. He shrugged into his suit coat and lint rolled everything to ensure its pristine condition. “You’ve reached—”  _ End call. _ Aaron touched his name again, trying to push away the sense of dread growing wider and wider in the pit of his stomach. 

He headed up the hall into the kitchen and checked the muffins, not quite done but getting there. “You’ve reached—”  _ End call. _ He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, stomach doing sick flips.  _ I have to take Jack to school. _ He couldn’t go by Spencer’s apartment right now. He had to take care of his son. He  _ wouldn’t _ put Jack in danger, not a chance in hell, but  _ Why isn’t Spencer answering his phone?  _ The sensation of wrongness, total wrongness, inundated him.  _ I’ll call JJ and ask her to check on him. No, no, JJ doesn’t know yet—I’ll call Prentiss and hope she doesn’t clue JJ in— _ His stomach kept flipping. Large spots danced in his vision. He was going to vomit or pass out or maybe both. Heart thundering in his chest, the skin in his extremities popped and tingled like rain on a tin roof. Breath became hard to come by. Each desperate gasp made him tremble.  _ Stop it. Snap out of it.  _ A sharp pain stabbed through his chest.  _ Don’t do this right now. _

The alarm on the oven beeped. Aaron upstarted with a whoop of breath and slammed his head into the cabinet. “Jesus fuck—”  _ Jack’s home! _ he reprimanded himself. Quivering from head to toe, he slid an oven mitt onto his right hand and took the muffins out of the oven, turning it off and looking at them. They were moist and beautiful. He put them on top of the oven to cool. “Jack, you coming?”

“Almost!” His voice was thick with spittle. The sound would’ve made Aaron smile on an ordinary morning, the sound of Jack brushing his teeth and getting himself ready for school, but today the anxiety swelled up in Aaron’s chest and stomach and refused to allow him any freedom to breathe or to appreciate the daily blessings he shared with his son every morning over breakfast. Often, his work robbed him of these times—Aaron considered them precious when he did have them. 

Right now, he could think of nothing more precious than the sound of Spencer’s voice saying something, anything, other than that godforsaken voicemail message. Aaron recalled the particular lilt of his voice as he’d spoken yesterday: “ _ Aaron, I want you, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. _ ” The memory sent Aaron’s heart fluttering like a bunch of butterflies in his chest, not necessarily in a pleasant way—it might have been if not compounded with everything else, but all other things considered, it only inflamed the nausea pulsing within Aaron’s abdomen. 

He heard nothing but the whoosh of blood in his own ears.

Then, his phone rang. 

Aaron had never answered a phone call so fast before in his life. 

“Spencer.” The breathlessness to his own voice took him aback, and he closed his mouth to try to measure his breathing, hoping the sound didn’t whistle too audibly to Spencer over the speaker. Some part of him knew it was too late, Spencer had already heard that element of his panic, he couldn’t take it back—but that was the patient sound of Spencer’s breath on the other end of the line, Spencer was  _ safe _ , he had called back, and Aaron could deep breathe now. He wiped off his sweaty palms on his trousers. “I…” At a loss for words, he fell silent. Panic and relief were both thieves; together, they collaborated to rob him of his voice. 

“Aaron?” Concern punctuated Spencer’s tone. “Are you okay? I missed eight calls from you. Is everything okay?”  _ I scared him. _ A breathless, nervous laugh fluttered from between Aaron’s lips into the phone. He’d panicked when Spencer became unreachable, and then in return, he’d scared Spencer, completely inadvertently, only with the best of intentions in mind. “Aaron?” Spencer prompted again. “Are you there?”

Aaron closed his mouth and swallowed hard. The inside of his mouth had dried from gasping for breath. His lips stuck together uncomfortably as he parted them again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m…” He reached for a glass and filled it with water to drink. After a few swallows, he finished, “Yeah, I’m here.” He closed his eyes. Now that the panic had passed, they felt heavy. He had sweated under his arms and in his hair.  _ I wish I had time to shower. _ But he had to get Jack to school, and he didn’t want Jack to have to button his shirt for him a second time. 

“What’s the matter? What happened?” 

Reaching across the counter, Aaron put a pot of coffee on to brew, drinking from the glass of water and focusing on Spencer’s voice. “Nothing, nothing, I’m fine—” Jack’s footfalls behind him made him flinch.  _ Calm down. _ “You didn’t answer. I got concerned.”

A soft breath wafted from Spencer’s side of the line to Aaron’s. “I was in the shower,” he explained gently, and it made sense now, upon hearing it, that he’d called Spencer eight times in less than fifteen minutes—he couldn’t reasonably expect Spencer to take his call when he was showering. His brain hadn’t considered it in the panic. Maybe, at some point, it had crossed his mind, but it had seemed less likely than the alternative that someone had entered Spencer’s apartment and killed him while he slept and now his phone rang and rang over his decapitated corpse. “Eight calls is a lot more than concern,” Spencer reminded him, and he was tender in the way he said it, but Aaron set his jaw in response. “You can’t panic every time I’m out of your line of sight.”

_ I know. _ It wasn’t normal for his heart to flounder like a fish out of water because Spencer had stepped out of his reach. It wasn’t normal for his brain to conjure worse and worse visions at every turn because he hadn’t heard Spencer’s voice in a certain number of hours. “I think it’s warranted, given the circumstances,” he mumbled.  _ What circumstances?  _ Was it just that a killer had targeted Spencer? Would this have gone differently if none of this had happened, if this were an ordinary relationship? Aaron hoped so, but as often as his nightmares had begun to mingle Haley and Spencer together, he wondered if he was doomed to worry about Spencer’s imminent death for the rest of his life. 

“Daddy?” Jack asked. “Who’s on the phone?” 

Aaron touched the muffins to make sure they were cool, and then he put one on a plate and gave it to Jack. “It’s Uncle Spencer, buddy. Do you want to say hi?” Jack nodded. “Spencer, Jack’s going to talk to you.”  _ Uncle Spencer. _ Aaron couldn’t remember if he had called Spencer that before or not. He hadn’t had a conversation with Jack yet—he planned on doing that when he had a full evening with him. He thought that was best.  _ Maybe I shouldn’t so soon. _ Aaron didn’t know what was right. He and Haley had created most of their parenting rules together, but unfortunately, neither of them had ever devised a scenario in which one of them was murdered and the other had to explain to Jack what it meant to enter a new romantic relationship. Aaron didn’t know how to go about this. If he didn’t tell Jack something soon, he would begin to make his own inferences and guesses, and Aaron didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want to confuse Jack or upend his life any more than had already been done. 

It was selfish, but he wished Haley were in this position instead of him. She would’ve had a better idea of what to do without him. 

“Okay,” Spencer agreed. Aaron put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter top. 

Jack stuck his spoon into his egg muffin. “Morning, Uncle Spencer.” 

“Good morning, Jack. How are you this morning?” 

Spencer’s voice was sweet but not patronizing or condescending. Aaron’s heart fluttered again, this time in the pleasant way, at the sound. He remembered what Prentiss had said to him, “ _ He’s been telling JJ how badly he wants kids since Henry was born _ ,” and it made Aaron’s chest light on the inside. Spencer liked Jack. Jack liked Spencer. They could be happy, they  _ would _ be happy soon, one day, when things were calmer and they could be together without the threats looming over them at every turn. 

“I’m good,” Jack said. Aaron poured himself a cup of coffee and took a muffin for himself. The vegetables gave a pleasant crunch as he ate it. “I helped Daddy button his shirt this morning,” Jack reported proudly, all puffed up. 

“Did you? I’m glad he’s got you there to help him out. Thank you for taking care of him.” Aaron cut into his muffin with a tiny smile at the way Spencer’s voice melted. 

“Mhm,” Jack said. “He said your name in his sleep last night.” Aaron paused, glancing back at Jack. He didn’t recall any dreams, good or bad, but Jack wouldn’t lie, especially not over something like that. 

“Oh?” Spencer asked. “What’d he say about me?” 

“Nothin’. Just your name.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’m on his mind.” The warmth in Spencer’s voice mingled inside of Aaron. “You have a good day at school, okay?”

“Mkay.” 

Aaron picked up the phone. “I’ll see you in about forty-five minutes, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

It was different at work. They were together, but they weren’t  _ together, _ and Aaron missed him in a weird way. He didn’t know when he’d next get another evening with Spencer. He didn’t like to sacrifice the time he got with Jack. Work already took him away too often, and he couldn’t squander the precious little time he had remaining with his son.  _ Tonight is as good a night as any. _ The thought of doing it so soon caused Aaron’s heart to skip a beat as he and Spencer bid their farewells and he ended the call. 

Jack finished up his muffin. Aaron glanced over his outfit and made sure he had ordered everything appropriately, his shoes tied, his jacket zipped, his hair combed. “You got everything in your backpack? Planner? Books? Pencils?” Jack nodded, but he also knew the rules, unzipping the backpack and holding up everything he needed to Aaron to show him. “Alright, then, let’s go to school.” 

Donning his backpack again, Jack turned off the lights while Aaron put away the things from breakfast, and they locked up together and headed for the stairs. “What do you say I pick you up from school today, and we get ice cream?”

Jack’s eyes widened. “ _ Really? _ ”

The astonishment twisted a knife in Aaron’s stomach; how dare he put his son in this position, make him crave his presence so much that a simple trip to the ice cream parlor after school was a special treat, a surprise, something granted so rarely… It wasn’t fair. Jack deserved all of him. But leaving was not as simple as Strauss had made it out to be. Especially not now, not when Spencer needed him, too. 

“Yeah, we can go to the Cheery Cherry. Unless you’d rather have FroYo?” 

“Cheery Cherry!” Jack jumped up and down and spun around, stumbling on the stairs, and Aaron caught him by the strap of his backpack to keep him from falling all the way down the stairs. “Whoops.”

“Careful, there.” 

“Can we watch a movie after?” 

“Yes, after you do your homework, we can watch a movie.” Aaron kept a hold on Jack’s hand now. His own hands were not as shaky and unsteady as before, and he could safely keep a grip on Jack. “What do you want to watch?” 

“ _ The Sound of Music! _ ” 

Aaron snorted a light laugh. Of all things, Jack had inherited Haley’s taste in movies—if it wasn’t a musical, it wasn’t worth watching. Fortunately, Aaron was no stranger to a good musical himself, even if Jack had watched  _ The Sound of Music _ enough times to give Aaron wartime flashbacks at the first opening images of a mountainside. “Alright, then, we can watch  _ The Sound of Music. _ ”

“Yes!”

“ _ After _ you do your homework.”

“Right, Dad.” 

…

In his office, Aaron nibbled on the end of his ballpoint pen, staring down at the files Garcia had forwarded him. She had checked into Spencer’s background and pulled up some old professors and classmates she thought were of interest—no direct ties, not any circumstantial evidence, just an intuition from a woman who wasn’t even a profiler, but that was all they had, and now, Aaron reviewed one of Spencer’s mathematics professors from CalTech who had moved to DC in 2006, taking note of some of the bizarre things in his history—domestic battery (what else was new?), assault and battery of a student (according to police report, the student hit first), and some larceny. Nothing on par with murder, much less decapitation, but he  _ did _ have a record. 

Aaron’s phone buzzed. 

💙Spencer💙:  _ Strauss is coming to your office. _

Aaron opened the text to shoot him a message in response, but then Strauss knocked on the door. Aaron put his phone away and stood. “Come in.” She entered. “Chief Strauss?” The manila folders in her hands weighed her down.  _ That isn’t good. _

Strauss would not bring him new cases until it was time for them to take new cases. And the stricken, pale look on her face told Aaron the director had given her no good news. She gingerly placed the stack of files onto the corner of his desk. Aaron’s eyes followed the folders and stared at them, reproach boiling in the pit of his belly. “The director has denied my request to extend the investigation into the stalker case another ten days.” Aaron set his jaw. “I’m sorry, Aaron.” 

The tone to her voice conveyed her genuineness. “I suppose there is nothing else we can do on this front?” 

Strauss shook her head. “You have until tomorrow, end of the day, to make an arrest. After that point, the stalker will be dubbed inactive unless he strikes again.”

“And the director understands that when he  _ does _ strike again, it will most likely be against one of my agents?”

“Frankly, I don’t know if the director understands a goddamn thing that happens under the roof of this building except for how to take credit for all of our hard work and treat our agents like disposable pawns.” Not for the first time, though it occurred quite rarely, Aaron watched a flint of anger spark in Strauss’s eyes, heard the lilt to her swear word. She was angry, justifiably so. She was on his side. Aaron could not rebuke her. “No, he doesn’t understand the danger this decision puts Dr. Reid in—or worse, he simply doesn’t care. But I’ve argued my case, and I can’t do anything else without jeopardizing my position and yours.” Aaron nodded slowly.  _ My hands are tied. _ The rest of today, and tomorrow, and after that? After that, Spencer’s safety was a gamble. 

Strauss cleared her throat. “The director wants you on a new case the day after tomorrow. I’ve brought you the top priority files to sort through so you’re ready to go when that comes.”

“Of course. I’ll make it happen.” Aaron’s voice was quiet, distant. Another case? How could he ever look at another case when the  _ sound _ Spencer had made haunted his dreams? That horrible sound, the way Spencer screeched his name, panicked and flailing blindly on that bed… “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Strauss lingered in his office, watching him quizzically, like she tried to read him—she had something else to tell him. 

She raised an eyebrow. “Agent Hotchner,” she addressed pointedly, “I… am hesitant to disclose this information to you, and I technically am not  _ obligated _ to share this with you, so I want you to keep that in mind before you react.” He maintained his poker face, gazing back at her, waiting for her instruction or revelation or whatever would come forth from her; he sensed, no matter what she said, he would not like it. “At the recommendation of my experts in counterterrorism, hate crimes, and sex crimes divisions, I have contacted WITSEC on Dr. Reid’s behalf. At this point in the investigation, we believe it is in his best interest to go into protective custody and stay there until we have a handle on this person.”

“ _ No. _ ” The brittle tone to Aaron’s voice leaked through as much as he fought to stifle it. His heart plummeted all the way down into the soles of his shoes and lingered there, pulsing with agony at the notion of Spencer going into WITSEC—Spencer, WITSEC, the same organization that had lost Sam, that had lost Haley. “He’s not going.”

“With all due respect, I was not asking.”

“He’s a federal agent. He can’t enter WITSEC without the consent of his superior—”

“And I  _ am _ his superior,” Strauss reminded him, her voice only slightly sharpening. “I thought it would be best to tell you before the guardians arrive to escort him to his safe house so you could prepare your team for his absence. Please do not fight me on this. The paperwork has been submitted. He’s going.”

“He won’t.”

“I understand this is upsetting for you given the circumstances—”

“Ask him,” Aaron challenged, eyes blazing. “He won’t go. You can take him without my permission, but you can’t take him against his will.” 

“ _ Stand down, _ Agent Hotchner—”

Aaron gave her a wide berth. He wouldn’t hurt her—she thought she was doing what was best, he knew, he  _ knew _ she thought that, and maybe she was right, but he didn’t know for sure, and Spencer did know. Spencer would know the right answer, and he would decide what was best mathematically, and Aaron knew in the pit of his gut that Spencer wouldn’t leave him, not without a very convincing reason. 

_ More convincing than a murderous stalker pursuing him for five years? _

Aaron pushed away that little voice in his head. He opened the door to his office and called, “Reid!” Spencer was spinning round and round in his chair in the bullpen balancing a pen on his nose, and at the sound of his name, he popped up out of his seat, tucked the pen into his pocket, and trotted up the stairs to Aaron’s office. “Come inside.” He closed the door behind him.

Spencer tiptoed into the room, shooting cautious glances between Aaron and Strauss, both posed in shows of dominance, of defiance—he read the room, and he did not like it, his posture shrinking as the thoughts crossed his face, trying to figure out how to diffuse the tensions in this room before the two opposing forces erupted. “Yes?” he asked, gaze darting from Aaron to Strauss and back again. He deferred to Aaron. Aaron liked that. 

Strauss cleared her throat. “Well, I had planned on informing you under different circumstances, Dr. Reid…” Spencer’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up almost in fear, and Aaron wondered what information he thought Strauss would divulge to him. “At the recommendation of several of my colleagues, I have contacted WITSEC for your placement. For your safety, you’re being placed in protective custody until this case is solved.” 

One scarcely had time to take a breath before Spencer rebuked, “No.”

Strauss blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no,” he enunciated a little louder. “I’m not going into witness protection. I’m safer here.”

“Dr. Reid, I beg of you. I understand this unit has had lackluster experiences with WITSEC, but looking at the bigger picture, the section’s overall performance is statistically stellar—”

“Actually,” Spencer interrupted, “it isn’t. WITSEC is not nearly as safe as it purports itself to be. You see, the section preys upon our natural trust in witness protection—we’re spoonfed the idea that WITSEC is the safest possible outcome for anyone whose safety has become compromised. That’s why none of us objected when Haley and Jack were placed in their custody. We all just assumed, fallaciously, that that was the safest place for them to be.”

“Are you suggesting it wasn’t?”

“I’m not suggesting it. I’m telling you.” Aaron raised his eyebrows at the way Spencer asserted himself. He fidgeted with his hands on the hems of his pants, and he didn’t meet Strauss’s eyes, and he rocked himself in the air, but his voice did not falter. “There have been an average of eleven witness and seven guardian deaths in WITSEC per year since the mid-eighties when they began tracking those numbers. That’s more than two percent annually. In fact, we can look at the statistics—we know about ninety-five percent of all witnesses who enter WITSEC are criminals of some kind, usually nonviolent criminals and committers of financial crimes who get wrapped up in things larger than themselves and request solace in exchange for testimony and pardoning of their crimes. So with that in mind, it has been suggested that WITSEC is  _ actually _ just a ploy for the government to get some of the most meaningful criminals in a position where they can track them and take them out one by one.”

Strauss blinked in surprise, taken aback—and Aaron’s voice choked off, too, deep inside of himself.  _ Two percent annually.  _ They’d known there was a leak. Spencer had never talked about these statistics before, at least not to him. At the silence, Spencer pressed on, “I’m not going into WITSEC. I’m safer here. It’s clear that the information in WITSEC has been compromised for a very long time, and as long as I’m here, I can help my team. I can’t help anyone if the stalker finds the leak and follows the breadcrumb trail right to the door of my safehouse.” 

Silence followed. Aaron gave Strauss a mild, passive look, his poker face controlled from the inside out. “You can’t make him go against his will,” he said in a carefully neutral voice. 

“You’re right.” Strauss had, in her own way, conceded defeat—at least for this round. “Thank you, Dr. Reid, Agent Hotchner.” 

The door closed quietly in her wake.

The sound of Spencer exhaling broke the silence. “I suppose I can glean from that conversation that the director did not grant us ten more days to work this case?” Aaron inclined his eyebrows, shooting a reproachful look to the stack of files she had left on the corner of his desk. “Well.” Spencer’s jaw shifted. He didn’t know what to say. He sat down in the chair across from Aaron’s desk, though Aaron did not move from where he hovered a few feet away from the door to his office. “I guess I can help you sort through these and find where we’re going next.” 

The blase tone to Spencer’s words jutted an icepick between Aaron’s ribs. It hurt to breathe. “I don’t want your help, Spencer.” Aaron folded his arms across his chest and stared at the floor. His tongue darted out across his dry lips. He didn’t have anything else to say. He didn’t  _ have _ words. He had feelings, all these mingled, disgusting, horrible, destructive feelings bursting at the seams inside of him, threatening to pour out if he didn’t find an outlet. 

_ Spencer is right here. _ His soft, light brown eyes followed Aaron from where he sat in the chair, and Aaron drew nearer to him, placing a hand on the back of the chair, counting his own points of courage. Did he dare? Here, of all places?  _ What does it matter? _ So what if they fired him and tossed him out on his ass? So what? So what? Nothing mattered. They couldn’t keep Spencer safe; he couldn’t keep Spencer safe; no one could find this man. 

Aaron leaned down. 

Spencer pressed a palm to his chest, halting him, and Aaron froze, wondering if he had grievously overstepped some boundary. “The blinds are open.”

_ Oh. _ Well, that certainly explained Spencer’s reluctance. Aaron turned and closed the blinds, and when he faced Spencer again, Spencer had stood. Spencer met him with outstretched arms, kissing him firmly, tenderly, with all the insistence of an army of men, all the gentleness as the down feathers of a bird. He looped his arms around Aaron’s neck and held on tightly, held on like the prince clung to Rapunzel’s hair to hoist himself into her embrace once again. Aaron closed his eyes and relished in the sweet scent wafting from him, the way it carried from the crook of his neck into Aaron’s sinuses and relieved some of the pressure there. 

Kissing him? That was wonderful, and Aaron wouldn’t complain about it. But the contact was what he needed the most. Spencer broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of Aaron’s neck. Aaron smelled his hair in return and rolled his hands up and down Spencer’s thin body. Under the layers of sweater vest and shirt, Spencer did not feel as lean, but Aaron had felt this body with nothing but a thin T-shirt over it and knew the divots between his ribs and vertebrae would fit his fingers easily. 

“Thank you,” Aaron whispered, “for staying.” 

“Of course,” Spencer mumbled in return. “Couldn’t have paid me to leave. This is where I belong.” 

_ This is where I belong. _ Spencer referred to the BAU, or to DC at large, Aaron suspected, but… He liked to think that Spencer meant right here, in this moment, in Aaron’s arms,  _ this _ place owning him more than any other position in the time-space continuum. 

…

That evening, Spencer dished up the food he’d bought from the grocery store on his way home from work—a cake with  _ Happy Birthday, Cheryl _ written on it; a rotisserie chicken of her favorite flavor (lemon pepper); containers of coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, and potato salad; and a new throw blanket with a cat on it. Cheryl had mostly dedicated her apartment to her cat, and Spencer tried to get her something in that vein every so often when he thought of her, though she was running out of room for ceramics and other trinkets (except on occasion when the cat pushed them off and shattered them). 

He headed over to her apartment and knocked twice. “Hey, Cheryl, it’s me,” he called through the door, though he didn’t know why. She was expecting him—he’d talked to her this morning—and she always answered her door, anyway. She was from the generation that could make unannounced housecalls like that. 

“Oh, Spencer!” She clapped her hands together as she opened the door. “I’ve been waiting all week for this.” She squeezed him around the middle and beckoned her into her apartment. “Come in, come in, I’ve already set the table.” 

Spencer gave an easy smile. “Happy birthday.” He helped her arrange everything on the countertop. “I got your grocery store staples.”

“You still can’t cook for anything, I see. You know, that friend of yours had something  _ really _ yummy-smelling coming out of your apartment last night.”

Spencer blushed. “How’d you know it was him?”

“Well, I know it wasn’t  _ you, _ so by process of elimination, it must’ve been him, correct?” Spencer shrugged. “Are you going to tell me what it was?” she pressed as she cut up the rotisserie chicken while Spencer worked on slicing the cake.  _ Aaron was in my apartment yesterday. _ The memory felt so distant, but just last night, Spencer had lain himself across Aaron’s body and asked to be his, and he’d felt the way his form fit in Aaron’s hands… “Spencer?” 

He snapped to attention. “Hm? Oh, yeah—it was, um, some kind of vegetable soup. It didn’t have any meat or anything. Just a mild arrangement.” 

“So cooked exactly to your taste, yeah?” Cheryl touched the small of his back, and he shook his head sheepishly, carding a hand through his hair. “You’ve been quiet lately. Ever since you left for Las Vegas. Is there something going on?” 

Spencer took her gallon of juice from the refrigerator. “No, no, just—just work stuff.” His voice faltered. 

He hadn’t come out to her yet. He had intended on it when he got home from Las Vegas and from Gideon’s, after he came out to the team on his own terms—he’d planned on telling her, then. But then everything had happened. The stalker had robbed him of the opportunity to come out to anyone at all, anyone other than Aaron, who had already heard the news from two other parties before it came from Spencer himself. Spencer hadn’t yet gotten to come out to someone who didn’t suspect it, who hadn’t had it ruined. And now that he faced her, he didn’t know how to do it. 

“Spencer.” His name cut into his thoughts again, and again, he looked up at her. “I’m ninety-one. I’m allowed to be hard of hearing. You’re not.” His gaze darted away. “You’ve been acting suspicious for almost three weeks. What on earth is going on?” 

Spencer’s jaw shifted uneasily from side to side. He filled his plate first—Cheryl wouldn’t hear of a guest filling his plate after the host—and then took it to the table. “There’s just a lot happening at work.” It was true. She sat across from him. “You—You remember that thing I said, about not letting anyone in who you don’t recognize?” he pressed. 

“I’m not going to let anyone in your apartment, Spencer.” 

“I know—I just think you should be cautious of anyone right now, if you don’t recognize them—if they’re not one of our neighbors.” Cheryl looked back at him dubiously. “There are some things happening locally that have me concerned,” he said, “that’s all.”

She gave a soft sigh. The cat, Gigi, wrapped around their ankles on the floor, but she knew better than to jump onto the kitchen table. She reiterated, “I’m ninety-one years old. I’m a nurse. I’m not afraid of anything. Nothing so dangerous could happen to me that would make me less likely to help someone in need. If someone needs me, I’m not going to deny them.” 

Spencer shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “There are certain circumstances which make me think someone with impure intentions could target this building.”

“This building, or you in particular?”

She was his friend, so he decided not to lie to her. “Me in particular.” He hoped he made the right decision, hoped he hadn’t divulged too much and frightened her or put her at greater risk of harm. “The string of crimes are not…”  _ People don’t survive them. _ “I just don’t want to see you put in a position where you could be hurt. Maybe—try to exercise just a  _ little _ bit more caution than normal? For me?” 

Gigi batted around with his foot as a toy on the floor. Cheryl cut into the rotisserie chicken. “I will do what I can.” She was careful to keep the silverware from dragging on the plate; she knew the sound aggravated Spencer. “But I’ll remind you that if I had been exercising caution, you wouldn’t be sitting across from me right now.” 

_ She’s right. _ And the conversation always came back to this whenever Spencer mentioned he thought Cheryl behaved recklessly. She would let anyone into her apartment; she would hand out money to anyone who asked; she would follow anyone into a dark alley filled with trust and warmth. It wasn’t that she was naive. She wasn’t. But rather that she simply found the payoffs from these actions more meaningful than any protection she could have achieved by avoiding them. If she used caution, she wouldn’t have dragged Spencer up the stairs to her apartment and cared for him through his overdose and his withdrawals for days on end. She would’ve turned the other cheek and left him there to die, or perhaps called 911 and caused a ruckus with his work and gotten him fired and robbed him of any reason to live. 

“I know. I don’t want you to compromise your values… I just also don’t want you to compromise your safety.”

She gave a soft laugh. “My safety? I’ve reached a time in my life where I’m no longer concerned with my safety. What’s left? I lose my hearing, my vision, my memory, my mobility. My family continues to forget that I exist, and I entertain myself through senior book clubs and hanging out with you on Friday nights.” She sipped from her juice. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not in a rush for it to end. But I’m ready when it does. I’ve made my peace with it.” 

_ I don’t like that. _ And if Cheryl knew what was happening to these people, he thought she would understand—but Spencer couldn’t tell her. He wouldn’t frighten her that way. Besides, she was probably right; he doubted the stalker would poke his head in her business to try to get at Spencer. It was a backward, roundabout way of heading things off, that was for sure. “I guess I can live with that. As long as we’re still on for Friday nights.”

“Until the end of this life,” Cheryl promised. She chewed slowly and swallowed. “At this point, my only hope is that I live long enough to see Gigi over the Rainbow Bridge. She’s only nine, you know. Cats—they can live to be more than twenty.” At the sound of her name, Gigi jumped into the kitchen chair, meowing and purring, hoping for someone to pay a shred of attention to her. “I’d be surprised if I have ten years yet. Wouldn’t complain about it, but—just surprised.” 

“I hope I have you that long.” 

She smiled. “You’re a doll, Spencer.” He extended a hand to the cat and stroked from her head all the way down to the base of her tail. She arched up into his hand. “I think, if something happened to me, my family wouldn’t take her. I just don’t see them making that a priority. She’ll probably end up in one of those shelters. Thought I saved her from one of those places. I’d hate to see her end up back in one for the end of her days.”

“She won’t,” Spencer promised as Gigi pressed her face into the palm of his hand. “I’d take her.” Pet rent wasn’t  _ that _ much more. He had stuck to succulents because of traveling for work, but he could always make arrangements for someone to stop by and feed Gigi and scoop her litter box, if he ended up with a cat. “She’d be safe with me. Promise.” Spencer preferred Gigi here with Cheryl, where she had company all day; this was the only home she had ever known for the past eight years. But if something happened to Cheryl (and if Gigi remained in good health, Spencer knew the odds that the cat would outlive her were good), he would take her and ensure she was happy until the end of her life. 

“Really?” Spencer nodded. “That means a lot to me, honey. Thank you.” He gave a soft hum in response, focusing on the sensation of Gigi’s purrs against his fingertips. “So what’s the deal with your new friend? I’ve seen that blonde girl before, Jessica?”

“JJ.”

“Right. But he’s a new face.”

Cheryl had seen Aaron walking him up to his apartment several times over the past ten days. “Aaron—He’s my… colleague.” Spencer glanced up at her, gauging her reaction, and pulled his hand away from Gigi. She gave a disgruntled mewl and began to groom herself sitting in the chair. “I, um. I told you I went to see my mom in Las Vegas, right?” Cheryl nodded. “And—well, I didn’t plan on it, but I ended up flying to Omaha after that to talk to an old friend. And then I went to Atlanta to, um, bury an old hatchet, I guess, with myself.” He licked his lips uncertainly. “Aaron—he was worried about me. He thought, maybe, something else was going on, and he followed me. It took him awhile to catch up to me, but he finally found me in Atlanta.” 

“Pretty dedicated friend, flying around the country and back just to try to keep up with you.” 

Spencer gave a small, half-hearted smile. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. He, uh… He’s—”  _ I don’t know the words to use. _ “He’s more—more than a friend. He’s my—my—” They hadn’t given their relationship a name.  _ Boyfriend? _ No, too juvenile.  _ Partner?  _ They worked in law enforcement; that would get confusing. “Mine,” he finished lamely, hoping Cheryl could suss out his meaning, hoping none of it had gotten lost in translation, and he braced himself for the fallout. 

“Oh. Really?” Spencer nodded. Cheryl made only a mild sound of surprise. “Huh. I thought that blonde girl was more up your alley.” 

Spencer shook his head. “I—I’m gay.” He’d only said these words aloud to another person once before—to Aaron. But they flowed off his tongue easier than he expected. 

“Huh. I guess you aren’t really the macho man type.” Spencer blushed. “Well, I commend your choice. He is very attractive.” His cheeks flushed maroon. “Though—he  _ is _ a bit older than you, isn’t he?”

Spencer coughed, trying to shake himself free of the humiliation of Cheryl, who was like his grandmother, commenting on Aaron’s attractiveness. “Yeah, he’s—um, he’s ten years older than me… but it’s not—it’s not bad. I initiated it.” Spencer had kissed him first. 

Cheryl smiled at him and reached across the table to touch his hand. “Then I hope he makes you very happy, baby.” 

After dinner, Spencer helped her clean up and pack away the food, ignoring her little  _ shoos _ telling him to let her take care of things, he was her _ guest, _ and other traditional mores Spencer did not care to follow. “You’ve done enough, dear—you  _ showed up, _ which is better than can be said for any of my family—they didn’t even manage a phone call.”

“It’s your birthday. Let me help.” Gigi twisted around beneath their feet. Cheryl picked her up and put her on her cat tree to try to discourage her from tripping either of them, but she promptly jumped back down. “She thinks I’m going to give her chicken.”

“She’s right, isn’t she?” Cheryl asked, and Spencer gave a sheepish smile. “Go ahead. You have my blessing.”

Her phone rang. Cheryl brightened, her face splitting like the noonday sun, and she ran in the only way a nonagenarian could run to answer it—seeming to think for a moment that complaining aloud had spoken it into existence, that her family, at least one member of it, had decided to grace her with a phone call. She answered it. “Hello?” Her face fell. A few seconds passed. Then, she hung up the phone. “Telemarketer.” 

Spencer’s heart sank. “Well—what do you say we watch a movie?” He didn’t have anything else to do tonight, except call Aaron later, before bed. He liked Aaron’s voice to be the last thing he heard before he tried to sleep. It made it easier to rest with the beating of his neighbors overhead. 

She perked up at him, soft and rueful. Her cold, withered hand caressed his. “Sure, Spencer. Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! please leave a comment if you're enjoying this piece, or feel free to hit me up on tumblr, @thefandomlesbian or my sideblog @thecriminalmindslesbian

“Only priests and fools are fearless, and I've never been on the best of terms with God.” -Patrick Rothfuss

…

Aaron tucked Jack into bed and sat beside him on the blankets. The storybook they had read rested on the nightstand, right beside Haley’s candle that overlooked Jack’s room. Jack snuggled up close against him. “Will you stay tonight, Daddy?” 

Carding his fingers through Jack’s hair, Aaron tilted his head at him. “I need to call Uncle Spencer before bed,” he said, “but I’ll come back after, okay?” Jack nodded, giving a pleasant hum. He was clean, freshly bathed, and he smelled good, like his green apple shampoo. His flannel pajamas were soft. “I need to talk to you about something, buddy. Can you listen?” At the question, Jack perked up, sitting up on his pillows. He blinked the bleariness from his eyes and met Aaron’s gaze, eager to learn, eager to hear—eager for everything. Aaron kissed the top of his head. “Do you remember when you told me about your friend Adrienne at school? How her mommy married someone else?” 

“Mhm.” Jack nodded. “She got a new daddy.” 

Aaron cracked a smile at that. It was so simple, the way he said it—the way one replaced a broken toy. “Right.” He didn’t want to clarify that right now. He would answer Jack’s questions as they came up and try to elucidate things in a sensible manner. “Do you know what the word gay means?” he asked gently. 

Jack bounced. Aaron kept asking him questions he knew the answers to, and Jack  _ loved _ knowing things. He was a lot like Spencer in that regard, Aaron supposed. “Yes! Gay is when two boys or two girls like each other. We read a book at school,  _ Tango Makes Three,  _ and, um,  _ Heather Has Two Mommies, _ we read those books.” 

Aaron grinned. This wasn’t a conversation he had planned on having with Jack—but maybe that was wrong of him. Even if his life hadn’t taken this turn, this was still something Jack needed to know about. “That’s right. Good job. You’re very smart.” He gave Jack a high five. “Settle down now. We still have to go to sleep after this.” Jack nodded and bundled up under his blankets again at the instruction. Aaron had thought targeting him in bed would be the easiest place, but now he wondered if he should’ve done it earlier over ice cream when they were both prepared to manage his sugar high. “And you know I’ve been spending a lot more time with Uncle Spencer, from work.” Jack bobbed his head in encouragement, eager to hear more. “Well, we are…” Aaron tried to think of a way to phrase it that would make sense to Jack. “We’re going to be together now. Like boyfriends.”

The smile fell away from Jack’s face.  _ I messed up. _ Aaron wasn’t sure where, but he had stepped out of line somewhere, because Jack’s excitement vanished. Perplexion replaced it, and something else—fear? _ Don’t be afraid, please don’t be afraid. _ “Daddy, you’re… a gay?” 

Trailing his hand down Jack’s arm to soothe him, Aaron shook his head. “Not exactly,” he clarified. “There’s—There’s boys who just like boys, and there’s boys who just like girls, and then there’s boys who like both boys and girls the same. I like boys and girls the same. I’m bisexual.” Aaron didn’t expect him to hang on to that word longterm—it was awfully large for a child Jack’s age to understand—but he provided it to him anyway, just in case he wanted it. Jack nodded slowly, drinking in the information, wearing that confused frown as he tried to sort things out in his head. “But—Uncle Spencer, he only likes boys. So he is gay. Like my friend Emily. She only likes girls. And Henry’s mom, JJ, she likes boys and girls. Do you understand?” 

Jack continued to consider it. “And Miss Emily and JJ are girlfriends now. Henry said.” Aaron nodded. “Will Uncle Spencer be my new daddy?” 

“No, buddy, I think he’s okay being your Uncle Spencer for right now.” Jack approved with a nod. “Are you okay with that?”

“Mhm. I like Uncle Spencer. He makes me laugh. And he always teaches me things.” Aaron smiled, squeezing Jack’s little hand in his. Jack’s fist wrapped around his fingers. “Mommy will stay with us, though, right?” 

“Of course, Jack, Mommy is always with you.” A cold knife of guilt twisted in the pit of Aaron’s stomach. Aaron couldn’t escape it—he had preferred those hours he lay at Foyet’s mercy, blade breaching his flesh again and again, over every single time Jack mentioned Haley in the past tense, reminded them both that she wasn’t there anymore. This life without her stung like a thousand bees. “Do you want us to talk to her tonight?” It was getting late, past Jack’s bedtime, but Aaron always had time to light Jack’s candle. 

Jack shook his head. “I’m sleepy tonight. Maybe tomorrow.” 

“Okay.” Aaron kissed the top of his head. “You can talk to her whenever you want, you know. I’m sure she’s always listening.” 

“Mhm.” Jack yawned. “Do you talk to her?” 

“All the time,” Aaron promised him. “Every time I think of you, and every night when I fall asleep.” Sometimes he thought she listened. Sometimes he thought she was laughing at him—and, well, some of the ridiculous stuff they’d gone through since they’d lost her  _ was _ pretty funny. He could only imagine how hard she’d rolled her eyes when he faked Emily’s death and shipped her off to Paris and then buried a bunch of sandbags. Haley would’ve thought that kind of thing was funny, funny in a bizarre and sick and weird way. 

Jack was quiet, and for a moment, Aaron thought he had fallen asleep, but his eyes were still open, and he finally tilted his head and piped up, “Will Uncle Spencer come live with us? So that way you don’t have to call him in the morning, and at night, because he’ll be right there for you to talk to, and you won’t be so lonely.” 

Aaron breathed a short, light laugh out his nose. “I’m not lonely. I have you.” He ruffled Jack’s hair. “We are sorting through some things at work for Uncle Spencer, so he’s going to stay at his apartment. Once we’ve fixed everything, I’ll talk to him about maybe staying with us, if that’s something he wants… Would you like that?”

Jack nodded emphatically. “Mhm!” He rubbed his sleepy eyes with his fists. “You caught the bad guy that was after him, didn’t you?” 

Shifting his jaw, Aaron considered, wondering if it would be kinder to lie to Jack, to say,  _ Yes, of course we caught him, that’s what we do, _ but he knew better than to tell such a tale when anything could happen. “No, we’re still looking for him. But we’re keeping Uncle Spencer safe. You don’t need to worry about him.” He smoothed his hand over the back of Jack’s pajamas to chase the wrinkles out of it. “Do you have any more questions for me? About what’s going to happen?” Aaron didn’t know what was going to happen for himself, but he would try his best to elucidate things for his son—he owed that to Jack, he thought. “Or anything else?”

Jack considered for a long moment. “Will you marry Uncle Spencer?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe, if that’s what he wants.” Aaron wouldn’t line up at the altar. It’d taken him years to pony up to the plate to ask Haley, and that relationship was far more clean-cut and clear than this one, fuddled by the stress they faced and the knowledge of things boiling over at work and the mere knowledge that  _ if _ they got married, it would cause corporate fallout of the apocalyptic level for Strauss. “Most grownups are together for a long time before they get married. We’re not going to do anything too fast. Do you understand?”

“Mhm.” Jack rubbed his eyes. “Sometimes the kids at school use  _ gay _ as a mean word. Why do they do that?” 

Aaron frowned. “Do they say that to you?”

Jack shook his head. “They say it to Peter, the dumb boy.”

“Now, remember, we’ve talked about Peter. We don’t call him dumb, right? We don’t use mean words to talk about our friends. Peter has a hard time learning at school, so we help him when we can.”

“Right. Peter is smart in his own way,” Jack repeated, and Aaron touched his hand in silent praise. After all, the first grade was pretty tough, and he would hear the mean things the other kids said about his disabled classmates and about him for sticking with them. Aaron was proud Jack tried. “They call him gay. They use it in a mean way. Why do they do that?” 

“Sometimes, people will use the name of a group of people as a mean word,” Aaron explained, “if they think bad things about that group. So people may call him that because they think gay means someone is shy, or weak, or girly. But we know better, don’t we?” 

“Why would people think that?” 

Aaron resisted the urge to sigh. He did not particularly care to unpack all of the nuances of the history of homosexual oppression in the United States for his first grader when it was past his bedtime on a school night, but he had offered to answer Jack’s questions, so he would do what he had promised. “Well… for a long time in history, it was really hard to be a gay person. People were not very nice. You know how you’ve learned about how Black people came to America, and they had to fight for a long time to be treated well?” Jack nodded. “Gay people had to fight, too. It’s still not legal everywhere for them to get married, and there are people who think gay people are scary, or sinful, and those people cause negative stereotypes.”

“What’s a stereotype?”

“A stereotype is like… like how some people believe all boys are good at math and science and all girls are good at cooking. You know that’s not true, right?” Jack nodded. “But some people still think that.”

“Mhm… Zach says I’m not allowed to like pink. Pink’s my favorite color.”

“I know it is, buddy. And Zach’s not right. He just believes a stereotype. Boys can like pink, and they can have long hair and like cooking. And girls can have short hair and be good at math.” Aaron looked down at Jack. “Some people have stereotypes about gay people that aren’t very nice, and they think those things must be true for all gay people. Like gay people can’t be brave, or aren’t smart, or aren’t strong.”

Jack made a thoughtful little pout with his lips, considering, and then he said, “They should all meet Uncle Spencer. He’s brave  _ and _ smart  _ and _ strong.” 

Aaron grinned, ducking his head.  _ One might not consider him strong. _ He would tell Spencer what Jack said, anyway, because it was cute and it was sweet and it was true—Aaron had scarcely known anyone in his life as brave as Spencer. Spencer was braver than Aaron, more focused on saving victims, more focused on compassion, more willing to put himself on the line even if that went against orders if he felt he could spare someone in need. “You’re right,” he agreed with Jack. “They should.” He touched Jack’s hair again. “Any more questions for me tonight?” Jack shook his head. “Okay. If you think of anything else, I’m here.” 

“Night, night, Daddy.”

“Sweet dreams, buddy.” Aaron kissed the crown of his head. 

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

Aaron plugged in Jack’s night light and tucked him into bed, and then he turned off the lamp and cast the room into darkness. He closed the door slowly behind him, watching Jack’s silhouette fade as the light from the hallway no longer illuminated his figure in the bed, until he closed the door all the way, listening to the latch click into place. It was a fire hazard to keep doors open, so as much as it gave Aaron anxiety to have him out of sight, he kept Jack’s bedroom door closed at night. 

Tiptoeing into his bedroom, Aaron closed the door after himself, and he reached for his phone to call Spencer. It was later than usual—not by much, but enough so Aaron’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. 

Spencer answered on the second ring. “Hey.” The audible smile in his voice eased something harsh and wild inside of Aaron’s chest, calmed and tamed it like a horse under a gentle touch. “What’s up?”

“You sound happy,” Aaron remarked. It wasn’t hard to tell. He had known Spencer for more than ten years; Aaron could recognize his emotions in the lilt of his tone. “How was the party?”

“It could’ve been a scene from  _ The Golden Girls. _ ” Aaron chuckled at that, though part of him wondered if Spencer was joking or completely serious, given he’d spent the evening with a lonely nonagenarian and her cat. “It was fine. She was very sweet. She just—well, she’s a little disappointed that her kids didn’t call today, that’s all.” Not for the first time, something pierced Aaron’s insides at the notion of a bunch of grown adults, people old enough to be his parents, abandoning their elderly mother to live alone and be cared for by the somewhat bizarre FBI agent who lived across the hall. “So we watched a weird, old horror musical with Angela Lansbury. I didn’t know she could sing.” 

Aaron breathed a soft laugh through his nose. “Yeah,” he confirmed, “Angela Lansbury can sing. She was in  _ Beauty and the Beast,  _ too… not that I expect that you’ve seen that film, have you?”

“I have not.” 

“You should. Decent movie. Her role is much smaller than in  _ Sweeney Todd,  _ though.” 

“How’d you know that’s what we watched?” 

“A weird old horror musical with Angela Lansbury? There aren’t a ton of musicals that would fit that description,” Aaron teased in response. 

Spencer made a muted sound in response. “I guess I just didn’t know that you knew or cared a lot about musicals,” he said.  _ I don’t, _ Aaron almost said,  _ Haley does. _ That was always what he had said when someone had asked about his inexplicable knowledge of musicals, of theater— _ My wife studied acting, my wife is an actress, my wife could’ve made it big but she gave up her life to follow my dreams and I don’t thank her enough for that, my wife is so talented, my wife, my wife is, my ex-wife, my ex-wife was, my ex-wife was murdered and now she’ll never make it big and all I’ve got to show for it are a few crummy tapes of community theater musicals she performed in that I watch with our son who is growing up without his mother and it’s all my fault— _ “Cheryl likes musicals,” Spencer said, not noticing Aaron’s silence on the other end of the line. “I’m just glad she didn’t make me watch  _ Calamity Jane  _ again. Or  _ Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.  _ Or  _ Oklahoma. _ ”

Aaron pushed away the thoughts of Haley. “What do you have against western musicals?”

“I can either tolerate the wild west on screen, or I can tolerate people randomly bursting into song. I cannot manage both of those things while still suspending my disbelief, and yet for some reason, musical writers continue to make musicals that take place in the old west. Why? What’s the allure? You can’t even put horses on stage.”

Aaron couldn’t help himself. He laughed aloud at that. “Why is it necessary to put horses on stage? They can set the scene in other ways.”

“But the whole reason I watch anything that takes place in the old west is to look at the pretty horses and the cows.”

“I’m learning a lot about you right now, Dr. Reid.” Aaron sat on the bed and took off his socks, tossing them both into the hamper, and he picked up a few stray garments from the floor before he lay on his bed. He folded back the heavy blanket and slid himself beneath it. It smelled like Spencer, and it cradled him the way Spencer did, and with Spencer’s voice in his ear, Aaron could almost imagine him beside him right now. “So what’s the allure of horses and cows on screen in old west shows?”

“I dunno. It’s just—a simpler time. You get to… ride a horse, and rope a cow, and wear jeans all the time. There’s no crime, and everybody wears cool hats and belt buckles, and you sleep under the stars and maybe share a sleeping bag with somebody.” 

“Do you want to be a gay cowboy?” 

“Depends. Will you be one with me?” 

Aaron closed his eyes, filled with mirth. He could forget everything else while he talked to Spencer like this, could relish in the sweetness of just him and Spencer and  _ silliness, _ a side of Spencer he had never gotten before, one he wouldn’t have gotten if this sequence of events hadn’t transpired. “I think I’d like that.” He crossed his legs under the blanket, feeling the way the heaviness shifted over his bare, rice-scarred knees. “But I’ve seen  _ Brokeback Mountain. _ I hope you have higher expectations than that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Good.” Aaron didn’t want to ruin Spencer’s gay cowboy fantasy. “I, uh—I talked to Jack tonight,” he said, diverting the conversation from whatever it was they’d been talking about—musicals and westerns and old ladies whose families didn’t call and cows and horses and gay cowboys—to something he knew how to manage. “About us.”

Astounded, Spencer asked, “Already?” 

Aaron fidgeted with the hem of the blanket, absently rubbing his fingers back and forth across its seam. He had never considered it before Spencer, but he did it now, and he found it quite soothing, the repetitive motion. “Yeah, I… I guess I thought it was better to tell him now, rather than wait for him to start asking questions.” Children were intuitive—they knew that from their work—and Jack was a profiler’s son. He could read people, adults, with unusual clarity, and Aaron wanted to get ahead of the charge before he allowed Jack to start wondering.  _ But maybe I should’ve asked Spencer beforehand.  _ What if Spencer had changed his mind and didn’t want to do this? Aaron had already gotten Jack all fired up for something that wouldn’t happen. “Is that okay?” Aaron asked, feeling quite foolish for proceeding without permission. 

Spencer breathed into the phone. “What? Yeah, yeah—I just, I figured you’d want to wait, all things considered.” 

Aaron didn’t know if Spencer referred to Haley or to the serial killer stalking him or a combination of the two.  _ Probably both, _ Aaron decided. “He’s ready,” Aaron reassured Spencer. “He… Well, arguably, he’s more ready than we are, with some of the questions he asked.” Spencer laughed into the phone. “I should know better by now, but I still always learn the hard way when I ask him if he has any questions, and suddenly it’s forty-five minutes later and I’m explaining the history of gay pride in America going back to Dale Olson and the Daughters of Bilitis.” In the background, Aaron heard fabric rustle, the sound of Spencer tucking himself into bed. “He’s a lot like you. He loves to learn. And he loves to be right.” 

“I don’t love to be right. It’s just something that tends to happen to me a lot.”

“Oh, my mistake,” Aaron said in a slightly sarcastic tone. He crossed his ankles. One of his toenails was overgrown and caught on the blanket. He didn’t want to sit up and trim it.  _ It’s going to snag all night and irritate me if I don’t clip it now. _ He reluctantly folded the blankets back and reached for his toenail clippers. “What did you think of  _ Sweeney Todd _ ? Besides the murder and cannibalism.” 

Spencer hesitated. “I…” He seemed to think for a moment, considering his words before he spoke them aloud to Aaron, but when he did, he said, “I don’t see a moral to the story. It’s just blood and death. I don’t know what the audience is supposed to take away from that, except maybe don’t trust barbers, which seems a bit heavy handed.”

“Sondheim’s musicals can be odd sometimes,” Aaron said thoughtfully, “in the way of theme.” He clipped his toenail under the lamplight. “But  _ Sweeney Todd  _ is a pretty clear case. The moral of the story is stated in the ‘Ballad of Sweeney Todd’ and its reprises. Don’t sympathize with people who do bad things even if you see the reasons for their actions, because we’re all only a few vengeful actions away from causing our own downfall. Vengeance isn’t an excuse for wrath.”

Releasing a short hum, Spencer thought, and Aaron didn’t interrupt him; he knew better than to interfere with the gears turning in Spencer’s brain. “How  _ do  _ you know so much about musicals?” Spencer finally asked, an outright question.

Aaron licked his lips. Before, he would’ve found it so easy to say aloud, but now, he struggled to find the right words. “Haley studied theatrical arts in college. She did literary analyses over a bunch of different musicals.” 

“Oh,” Spencer said, and Aaron wondered if he had crossed some kind of line, mentioning her now—he wasn’t sure  _ how _ he could have crossed the line, but the notion lingered in the back of his mind. No one had given him a rulebook on how to handle this, any of it, losing Haley, raising Jack alone, fighting whatever invisible enemy stalked Spencer, bringing Spencer into their lives. “Did she like  _ Sweeney Todd? _ ” Spencer asked.

It was the first time in years, Aaron thought, someone had asked him a question about Haley’s life rather than one about her death.  _ She was so remarkable. _ It wasn’t fair that the most significant memory any of them had of her was her death, her dying, Foyet, the funeral, the appearance in front of the board of directors—all of it. “She did,” Aaron said like a prayer. “She… She liked musicals that take place outside of modern time, or away from the universe as we know it. Not westerns, she thought western musicals were unnecessarily dull and never addressed anything that wasn’t already covered by classic western literature. But  _ Sweeney Todd  _ and  _ Pirates of Penzance _ and  _ Into the Woods _ and  _ Wicked, _ she liked all of those.”

No one ever talked to him about Haley except Jack, and with Jack, everything Aaron said about her felt tainted. How could he ever  _ explain _ to his son how wonderful his mother had been? Why did he have to? No  _ words _ could ever describe Haley or how much she meant to him or how she dazzled the universe or how the light from everything, even the sun, seemed dimmer now that she didn’t ride the earth with him to experience it. 

“Maybe we should watch those together sometime.” 

Aaron’s eyes stung with tears. Those quiet words, not insisting, just a moderate suggestion, something offered in good faith from a place of benevolence—no one had offered Aaron anything quite so tender in years. “Maybe we should.” He pushed the tremble out of his voice to keep from betraying how Spencer’s words had touched him. 

The doorknob to his room turned and pushed open. “Daddy?” Jack rubbed his sleepy eyes with his fists. “Can I get in bed with you?” 

“Yeah, buddy, sure, come here.” Aaron folded the covers back on the bed so Jack could get in with him. “Hey, Spencer, I—I have to go, Jack’s awake.” 

“Okay, Aaron, have a good night.” 

Jack tucked himself into the crooks of Aaron’s body and settled against him with a happy squirm and a sigh. “Sweet dreams,” Aaron wished to Spencer in return. He listened to Spencer’s breaths on the other end of the line until the call ended, and then he put his phone down on the nightstand. “Bad dream, buddy?”

Jack shook his head. “Just missed you,” he said. 

“Well, I’m here whenever you need me,” Aaron promised. He pressed a kiss to the top of Jack’s head, and he reached to turn off the lamp. “Sweet dreams.”

Aaron rolled onto his tummy, the way he preferred to rest, and kept one arm around Jack’s middle. Within minutes, Jack snored, his breath whizzing in and out of his body at an even rhythm, and the sound soothed Aaron. Jack was here, alive, safe beside him. Aaron could smell his hair and his soap and his toothpaste. 

_ He’s beautiful, Haley. _ It felt right to tell her, just in case she couldn’t see.  _ He’s more tender than either of us ever were… He’s kind. He doesn’t know a stranger. I’m going to keep him safe. _ Aaron pressed his nose so Jack’s hair just tickled his face, enough to make him feel real in spite of his closed eyes.  _ I think he’ll like Spencer. I hope I did the right thing. I wish you could tell me for sure. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. You know that, that was part of the deal, that you’d have to teach me, because I only know what not to do. I’m praying to you to make sure I get some better guidance. I stopped praying to God when we were teenagers, but it’s different now that you’re not here.  _

Aaron’s mind felt heavy, a sort of grogginess behind his eyes.  _ Jess could probably help me. We butt heads a lot. She’s too much like you. And your dad’s a complete dick. No offense. My dad was, too, but he’s not here to mess with my life anymore. Yours is, and it’s a pain in the ass. _ He listened to the hum of the furnace kicking on beneath his bed, the vent blowing warm air up against his cheeks.  _ It’ll be Jack’s birthday in a few weeks. I don’t know if we’ll do anything extra special. He likes to go to the zoo. A giraffe cake and a trip to the zoo and some souvenirs. I tried the whole big party thing for his fifth birthday, but when your parents showed up, things got thrown. He doesn’t want to be around them anymore. I don’t blame him. I hope you don’t, either. _

His jaw shifted, and his thoughts became more disjointed.  _ Maybe he’ll be a football player. Make us a lot of money. Buy you a mansion. All the football players buy their moms mansions, I think. I’ll still work, but I’ll ride there in a limousine, like Rossi… Spencer will be embarrassed, but he’ll come, too. Our limousine is black. Yours is pearl white, like the one your dad got us for your senior prom, to match your dress… With the flowers… Sorry, I picked out the wrong color for your corsage, I wanted it to be— _

“Blue to match your eyes, but I missed the mark.” Aaron held out the band of flowers to Spencer, who wore a long, pearl-colored dress with horribly poofy sleeves and fluff marks at the wrong places.  _ That was silly, _ he thought,  _ Spencer has brown eyes.  _ And yet he had purchased a corsage of blue carnations. He held out his arm.

Spencer took it. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” He kissed Aaron on the cheek. “Let’s dance.” With a flourish, they appeared on the floor of the gym done up to look like a ballroom, flashing lights overhead, and they fit neatly into one another’s arms as they swayed to the soft lull of a love song familiar to Aaron by notes but not by lyrics, until—

A text tone chimed over the speakers. “What was that sound?” Spencer asked. 

Aaron snorted awake. “Huh?” he grunted to himself. He blinked over at the digital clock on the nightstand beside him, the numbers flashing green—twelve-thirty. Only a little after midnight.  _ I must’ve dreamed… _ His phone beeped again. Not a dream. The text tone had woken him.  _ Who’s texting me in the middle of the night? _

He almost ignored it. But he was awake, he reasoned, and it could be something important. Careful not to jostle Jack, who slept peacefully beside him, he sat up and picked up his phone, opening to Spencer’s text conversation.

💙Spencer💙:  _ Aaron _

💙Spencer💙:  _ Are you still awake? _

Aaron blinked a few times at the lit screen of his phone, frowning. The pit of his stomach boiled with apprehension. Why would Spencer want him to be awake at this hour? He couldn’t think of a reason, unless something had happened, and what could’ve happened in the two and a half hours since he’d ended his call with Spencer and fallen asleep with Jack?

A Hotchner:  _ Yes, I’m awake.  _

He shifted his jaw uneasily, afraid of the response. His right hand clutched the blanket in a white-knuckled fist, pulling it up over his chest, trying to get the pressure on top of him to alleviate the growing pressure in his chest. 

💙Spencer💙:  _ Call 911. Someone’s in my apartment. _

Aaron’s heart clutched with an agonizing jolt. He gasped for breath, a short wheeze of a sound, and he rolled out of bed and snatched his phone off the charger, closing the bedroom door behind him—Jack, Jack couldn’t hear this, Jack,  _ Jack,  _ **_Jack._ ** Aaron couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t go to Spencer, he had his son, it was the middle of the night and his six-going-on-seven year old son was asleep in the other room and Aaron was powerless to help Spencer, he had to protect his child, he’d already messed that up once.  _ Your greatest fear is that you can’t save everyone. _ An unsub had told him that once. Aaron’s dry mouth tightened and loosened. 

He started to type in response, “ _ Don’t move. _ ” He backspaced, and then he amended, “ _ Stay where you are, _ ” but he didn’t like that, either, and he erased it. “ _ Help is coming. _ ” He erased it. “ _ Get your gun and don’t make a sound until help arrives. _ ” 

His thumb hovered over the  _ send _ button, but he did not press it. The thought crippled him:  _ What if his text tone sounds and betrays his position? _ He couldn’t risk it. He erased the text.

Another bubble appeared from Spencer, this one a voice message, seven seconds long. 

Stomach flipping, Aaron hit  _ play. _

The distinct sound of things falling and shattering in the background met his ears first. Then, Spencer’s heavy breaths, the sound Aaron knew from their phone conversations, wafted over the speakers. Then, he spoke, his voice the barest whisper but still completely, unmistakably Spencer: “I love you.” 

Aaron closed the conversation and dialed 911. 

What words they exchanged, Aaron wasn’t sure—he prattled off Spencer’s address once, twice, thrice, it wasn’t his home that needed help, it was Spencer’s, his name was Spencer Reid. “He’s armed, he’s an FBI agent, tell them  _ don’t shoot him, _ ” Aaron pleaded with the operator. “He has a gun, he’s hiding—”  _ I don’t know that he’s hiding, I don’t even know that he’s still alive— _ “He is armed, he’s prepared to protect himself,  _ don’t shoot him, _ ” he repeated like a mantra. 

“Sir, I understand there has been a home invasion and the police are on their way and are aware the victim has a weapon. May I please have your name?”

“It’s not a home invasion—he’s being stalked, there have been murders, we haven’t found any leads, he might be—”  _ Dead, he might be dead, he might be dead, he might be— _ Aaron’s throat closed up. He pinched his eyes tightly closed and pressed on the bridge of his nose to try to force away the dark images of Spencer’s body resting behind his eyelids. Haley’s corpse was so cold when he cradled her to his chest, _ so cold, _ though she’d only been dead a few minutes, for she had bled out everything meant to keep her warm. Would Spencer be cold, too? 

“Sir, may I please have your name?” the operator repeated.

“My name is Aaron Hotchner—” Aaron heard the quiver in his own voice, and when he realized it, he realized the warm tears on his cheeks. He didn’t know when he had begun to cry. “Please, is he safe? Are they almost there?” 

“Units have arrived at the residence.”

“Thank you, is he—”

The call ended. Aaron’s face fell. He stared in horror at the screen of his phone, almost calling back on reflex, but he didn’t—the operator ended calls when units reached the residence, that was how 911  _ worked, _ he couldn’t call back and demand access to classified information.

But he needed to know. 

Aaron picked up Jack’s backpack and go bag for Jessica’s, calling her as he collected Jack’s things and opened his closet, grabbing him a coat and some shoes. “Aaron?” Jessica’s groggy voice greeted him on the other end of the line. “It’s the middle of the night… What’s going on?” 

“I have to go to work.”

“It’s almost one in the morning…” Jessica yawned audibly. “And it’s a school night… Can’t you stay until it’s time for school?”

Aaron’s voice cracked. Six hours would pass before it was time to take Jack to school. Six hours. He couldn’t wait six hours. “N-No, Jess, I’m sorry, I—I can’t.” He sniffed hard and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. Jack couldn’t see him like this—it would scare him to death. 

“Aaron? Are you  _ crying? _ Are you okay? What’s going on?” 

“Nothing, just—please—”

“Yes, of course, I’m awake now. His bed is made. Hurry.” 

“Thank you.” Aaron ended the call. He slid into his tennis shoes and scooped Jack up out of bed, wrapping him in his coat. Jack didn’t wake up. Leaving all the lights on, he went for the stairs, still clad in his old rumpled T-shirt and basketball shorts, carrying Jack and his things. 

When he opened the door to the apartment building, the crisp September air wafted over both of them, and this caused Jack to stir, fluttering his eyelashes at Aaron. He yawned, mouth opening wide, blonde hair whisked by the breeze. “Daddy?” He snuggled up against Aaron’s chest, his brown eyes drinking in the scenery, the starry sky, the moon, the street lights. “You have to work?” 

“Yeah, buddy, Daddy has to work. I’m sorry.” Aaron forced his voice steady. He  _ wouldn’t _ betray himself in front of Jack. Jack  _ wouldn’t _ know anything bad had happened, not right now anyway, not ever if Aaron could help it. “We’re going to Aunt Jessica’s.”

Jack squinted at him in the dim light as Aaron opened the door to his car. “Where are your clothes?” 

“I—I’ll change at the office.” Aaron tucked Jack into his carseat and buckled him in. The cold air caused goosebumps to dapple his arms and legs like a flea-bitten horse. He climbed into the front seat and cranked the car, turning up the heat, trying to restore some warmth to himself, to his extremities. He quaked. Someone had picked him up by the scruff of his neck and dunked him in ice water and then left him out to freeze in the elements. 

The hum of the radio irritated him. He flicked it off. The silence overwhelmed him. Each flashing light on the freeway triggered something inside of him; Aaron braked at every wiggle of trash on the side of the road, nearly jumping out of his skin when a bat swooped low overhead. Jack didn’t make a sound. He had made this trip many times. 

At Jessica’s, Aaron carefully disentangled Jack from all of his straps and picked him up. He had fallen back asleep and did not rouse at Aaron’s touch, much to his relief. Jessica waited at the front door, which stood ajar, in her nightgown and robe, arms crossed and tired, glassy eyes fixed upon them as they approached. The outside light glimmered in her hair. 

Her neutral face flipped into a confused scowl as she drank in the sight of him. “Aaron—where are your clothes?” she whispered, trying not to disturb Jack. Aaron tried to hand her his bags. “No, no, tell me what’s going on. You’re going into work half-naked in the middle of the night with no warning?”

“It’s an emergency,” Aaron said.

Jessica still didn’t take the bags. But as she studied his expression, her eyes softened, and her posture shrank. “It’s Reid, isn’t it?” 

His silence told her everything she needed to know.

“Go. Hurry. Keep safe.” Jessica took the bags from him, and Aaron carefully slid Jack to her. He didn’t arouse. Aaron turned, but Jessica touched his arm. “Aaron, I mean it. Keep yourself safe. Whatever happens. You owe it to Jack.” 

Aaron gulped. His dry throat ached. “Right,” he croaked, and the timber of his voice cracked inside of him. “I will.”  _ Another broken promise. _

He would spend the rest of his life making this up to Haley. He would keep Spencer safe. He would keep himself safe. All empty promises, all things that meant nothing in the long run, things he couldn’t help, things he wasn’t smart enough or fast enough or strong enough to anticipate. 

When he entered the highway, every streak of traffic lights had a halo to his eyes. 

His car couldn’t go fast enough. 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the span between chapters! But I'm officially on break, and even though I'm working a lot more hours now, I'm hoping to have more time to work on this and a few of my other projects. As always, find me @thefandomlesbian on Tumblr or @fandom_lesbian on Twitter. Thank you for reading!

“If I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?” -Margaret Atwood

… 

Aaron took the stairs two at a time as he ascended the flights toward Spencer’s floor. Police cars littered the parking lot below, illuminating the building with blue and red flashes of light. His tennis shoes struck the carpeted stairs, barely making a sound, but by the time he reached the fourth floor, he gasped for air. Cops lined the corridor. “Spencer—” Aaron had tunnel vision, his gaze fixed on the open apartment door, light streaming from inside and casting shadows into the hallway. 

He moved into the doorway, eyes bathing in the scene like a lazy cat stretched out in the sun. 

Spencer’s apartment was destroyed. 

The bookcase toppled, the television on the floor with cords torn and wires exposed, pots and pans tossed haphazardly around the room, lounge chair flipped, sofa turned the opposite way to face the open door rather than the wall. 

On the couch rested a small, thin body. The frail, wizened hand was tangled in her own hair, for her head had been severed and placed on the cushion beside her. The open wound in her skull showed where the unsub had struck her. She wore an oddly contented expression, not even surprised—he had struck with such precision and speed that she hadn’t had the opportunity to register death as it came to her. A cold chill rushed down Aaron’s spine. He could hear her voice in his head. “ _ Young man, just what do you think you’re doing? _ ”

Cheryl, he remembered, Spencer had said her name was Cheryl. Yesterday was her birthday. She was ninety-one years old. 

Her blood had pooled all over Spencer’s sofa, saturating it, her clothing, dripping onto the floor. On the wall behind her, the message was painted: “LAST WARNING.” The finished drawing of a game of hangman displayed beside it. 

“Sir? Sir, you can’t be in here. This is a crime scene.”

Aaron whirled on the officer and pulled out his wallet. “Federal agent. I need to find Dr. Reid. He lives here—”

The cop scoffed at him, appraising him, him in his pajamas, his basketball shorts and stained, rumpled T-shirt and his one black and one white sock in his old running shoes. “You? A federal agent?” she countered. “Anybody can buy those badges at the costume shop. Get the hell out of here, man.” 

Aaron opened his mouth to respond, but before he could muster the words, he heard a scuffle down the hall. “You  _ killed _ that little old lady! You  _ bashed in her head, _ you sick son of a bitch—” Aaron spun toward the commotion, three cops much larger than the woman before him shoving around a sniveling Spencer with red-rimmed eyes and greasy hair hanging by his shoulders. 

He wore his flannel striped pajamas and no socks, nothing but his bare feet on the old carpet, hands cuffed behind his back, head hung in despondency, lips buffering but no sound coming out and his hands desperately trying to stim behind his back but finding no purchase. Aaron approached silently. He set his jaw. The largest cop backhanded Spencer. The strike sent him tumbling. He reeled away, directly into Aaron’s arms.

At the impact, he gasped a thin, shrill noise, cringing with his whole body, expecting another rough hand to come at him. Aaron touched the small of his back. “It’s okay,” he said softly.  _ No, it’s not okay, it’s not okay, there’s a dead woman in his apartment. _ Another puny sob erupted from Spencer’s lips, this one sheer relief, and as Aaron pulled his hand away, Spencer sank to the floor, his back up against the wall and hands tracing the wallpaper. “I’m the lead investigator on this case, and I want to know why you’re battering my agent instead of investigating the crime scene.” Again, he held up his wallet, displaying his badge.

And again, the cops were not impressed by someone not in uniform. “Detective  _ LaMontagne _ is the lead investigator of this case,” sneered the largest cop, “and his shift doesn’t start until five, so as far as I can tell, we’ve got four more hours to kick the snot out of this granny-killer as much as we want to.” Behind him, Spencer made a thin whimper. 

Aaron’s eyes flashed. “ _ I’m _ the Unit Chief of the Behavior Analysis Unit with the FBI, and we’ve been investigating this case for weeks. This is serial, not that you would’ve heard about it at the PD level, and Dr. Reid is a victim.”

“Please.” Another cop snorted derisively and rolled his eyes. “He’s playing the victim because he got caught. The granny’s apartment is crawling with his fingerprints and DNA. We got him—it’s cut and dried.” 

Aaron curled his lip. “If you don’t release my agent, I’ll arrest all of you for obstruction of a federal investigation. Is that clear?”

The last cop chuckled with scorn. “Arrest us with what? You gonna tie us up with your shoelaces?” Spencer sniffled again. “Oh, shut the hell up.” The cop drew his shoe back and booted Spencer in the ribs. 

Aaron’s closed fist connected with his jaw. The sickening  _ crack _ rang through the hallway before he registered the splintering agony in his fist. The cop sprawled backward on the floor, both hands flying to his jaw. Someone grabbed Aaron by the shoulder. He whipped around and shoved him against the wall by his throat, his teeth bared. The third cop pulled his gun. “Whoa, whoa, you don’t want to do this! Let him go!” The cop under his arm choked, his face whitening, both hands pulling uselessly at Aaron’s much stronger arm. Aaron’s fist throbbed where he had socked the first cop, who still lay shocked on the ground, looking up at them with a dazed expression. “Let. Him. Go.” 

He could’ve made the argument that he  _ did _ want to do this, he  _ did  _ want to choke out these cops who hurt Spencer, but he didn’t want Spencer to watch them riddle his body with bullets, so reluctantly, he released his grip from the officer’s throat and let him stagger away, gasping for breath. The third cop did not put down his gun. Aaron massaged his aching fist with his other hand. 

“What the hell is going on here?” 

The voice carried a familiar southern drawl. The cops, Aaron, and Spencer all lifted their heads, and the cop with the drawn gun holstered his weapon. “Detective LaMontagne! What are you doing here? You aren’t on duty until five.”

“I got the call and came right away when I saw the name.” Will appraised the scene through narrowed eyes. “You three care to tell me what you’re doing harassing federal agents over a federal investigation?” 

They ogled at him. “These jamokes aren’t FBI,” defended one cop. “Look at them. They’re wearing pajamas.”

Will blinked slowly. “Ah, yeah, because Lord knows FBI agents sleep in their fucking kevlar!” he said incredulously. He approached the cop still on the ground and offered him a hand. “Give me the key. Let Spencer go.”

“Let him go? He’s a criminal!”

“He’s not a criminal. He’s my son’s godfather, and he’s one of the most annoying people to ever walk the face of God’s green earth, but he’s never harmed a human soul in his entire life.” Will took the key to the handcuffs off of the cop’s belt. “I don’t know what you did to earn that punch in the face, but I’m sure you deserved it. Go put some ice on it.” The cop scowled, but he obediently scampered away. “Go do your fucking jobs, the lot of you. Lord have mercy, they dropped the IQ requirements for the PD last year and forgot to tell me about it.” The other cops slinked away, peering back at him, but Will waited until they were out of sight. 

He glanced up at Aaron. “Sorry about that, Agent. Spencer, c’mon, let me take those off of you.” Spencer’s wild eyes regarded both of them in terror, and Aaron crouched down beside him, putting a hand on his back and pushing on him to help him stand, turning him around insistently. Spencer flinched under his touch and gasped for breath. The handcuffs sprang free, and he flapped his hands, tangling them up together and digging his fingernails into his own skin and scratching. “Hey, pal, like—calm down—” 

Will reached to touch Spencer, but Spencer shrank away with a whistling wheeze. “Alright, alright. Look, I’ll just have my guys collect everything we can and forward it your way. JJ told me some of what’s going on—she actually told me to keep an eye out for anything happening in this area. And I thought she was just being a nervous nelly.” He pawed a hand through his hair. “I really do need you to give a statement for the police report, though, if you can,” he told Spencer. “Not right now… Go outside and chill or something for awhile. Get some fresh air. Stop doing your…” He appraised Spencer and his stims and gesticulated vaguely at him. “Stop doing all this and then come find me.”

He walked away. He, too, had a job to do, and Aaron knew better than to express his displeasure when Will had just made their case for them. “C’mon,” he whispered to Spencer. “C’mon. Let’s go outside. Let’s go—I’m not going to touch you,” he reassured when Spencer pulled away. Spencer pushed his foggy, teary glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and Aaron hovered beside him, heading toward the staircase, glancing back to ensure Spencer followed. 

He did in silence, only broken by his heavy breathing and sniffling. 

The chill outside the apartment building sent goosebumps up and down Aaron’s arms and legs. Behind the building, he headed into the courtyard, and he sat at a withered, moldy stone table and bench. It rocked under his weight, but it didn’t give way, even when Spencer sat beside him. Spencer raked his fingernails down his arms. “Stop, stop, don’t hurt yourself.” Aaron placed his left hand on the cold stone in front of Spencer, an offering, a gift, praying he would accept it. With pale, shaking hands, Spencer did, wrapping both hands around Aaron’s and tracing his bones. 

Aaron pressed his aching right hand to the cold bench, hoping the temperature would alleviate some of the pain he’d caused when he’d punched the cop. His doctor said no more punching. It was hard not to sometimes. “I know you probably can’t talk right now.” Aaron kept his voice low, trying not to disturb Spencer or overstimulate him even more. “Do you want me to talk to you?” 

Spencer folded his fingers toward his palm. He shook his head,  _ no, _ and Aaron nodded in acquiescence, waiting in silence, listening to the breeze whistle through the trees in the courtyard. The stirred fall leaves skittered around on the grass. A few bats swooped through the night sky, black silhouettes against a navy background. Aaron swept the area with his gaze.  _ Is he still here? _ He couldn’t help but wonder. He’d called the police fast—surely the unsub couldn’t have gotten far. Had he stayed to watch the wreckage he’d caused? Had he run?

The writing on the wall,  _ LAST WARNING, _ made Aaron’s stomach flip and turn. Last warning for what? Aaron didn’t know. He turned his hand in Spencer’s at the insistence, and Spencer traced the lines of his palms. With mild interest, he watched the patterns, the way Spencer’s fingers followed their own paths and sought the seams of Aaron’s skin to fiddle with. 

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then twenty—nothing filled the silence but the earliest of morning birds, the owls still hooting overhead, and the wind tickling the landscape. “Let me know what you need.” At Aaron’s words, Spencer’s eyes darted to him, as if in surprise, like he’d forgotten Aaron could speak. The quiver in Spencer’s hands had faded, the movement more fluid, and Aaron trusted that meant some part of him had calmed down. 

He released Aaron’s hand. Aaron left it there on the table, unwilling to take it away if Spencer wanted it again, but then Spencer scooted closer to him. “Is it okay if I touch you?” Aaron asked. Spencer nodded. Aaron placed his arm around Spencer’s back, not pressing too firmly, not drawing him in. Spencer rested against him. A shiver passed through him.  _ It’s cold out here. _ Aaron didn’t want to go back inside, not until Spencer had calmed down some more. Aaron smoothed his hand over the soft fabric of Spencer's flannel pajamas. Spencer's eyes drowsed, half-open, and he took a deep breath and released it. One hand rested on Aaron's thigh against the pocket of his shorts. He traced the outline of Aaron’s cell phone there in his shorts. 

Spencer fumbled with the phone through the cloth, and Aaron reached into his pocket and took it out, opening up the screen so Spencer could use it. Spencer opened up Aaron’s text conversation with himself, the last messages on the screen, “ _ Call 911. Someone’s in my apartment, _ ” and the bubble with the little play button, the one where Spencer’s heavy breaths came over the speaker with the sounds of his home being torn apart in the background and he whispered, “I love you,” into the phone like a prayer, like he thought those were the last words he’d ever say. 

Spencer typed in the text box. “ _ Can I talk to you this way? _ ” Aaron nodded, looking at Spencer’s face, all white and covered in red blotches and nervous. 

Aaron took the phone from him. “ _ Is it easier for me not to talk out loud? _ ” He would only do what Spencer asked of him—he didn’t want to make this worse. Spencer nodded. “ _ Can you tell me what happened? _ ” 

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Spencer considered. Expecting him to refuse, Aaron tilted his head, but instead, Spencer took the phone from him and deleted the text Aaron had composed. He adjusted his glasses and typed with his index finger, not very adept at hitting the keys, and proceeded slowly. “ _ I thought I heard something fall upstairs. That was what woke me up. The big boom. The upstairs neighbors are always noisy. But then I heard my front door open. He used a key. He targeted her because he knew she had a key. _ ” Aaron rested his hand on the small of Spencer’s back, reading the text as he slid the phone over to him. He deleted it once Aaron had read it. “ _ Then that was when I heard him start tearing everything apart. _ ” 

The unsub had upturned Spencer’s apartment, furniture spilled over on itself, vases shattered, plants torn from their vases. He had left nothing untouched, nothing unsoiled. Cheryl’s body rested on the sofa with her hand in her own hair, holding onto her head like Perseus holding the head of Medusa. The blood on the wall bore the warning in print. As if reading his mind, Spencer deleted the text and typed again, “ _ What do you think it means? _ ”

_ LAST WARNING. _ The unsub had written it on the wall. Warning from what? “ _ I don’t know. _ ” Aaron typed it in response to Spencer’s postulation. It was the middle of the night. He didn’t have any answers except the most important one: Spencer was alive. Aaron hadn’t known if he would find the answer he sought to that question when he arrived. “ _ I’m just glad you’re safe. _ ” It was meaningless, Aaron knew, to celebrate Spencer’s safety when another’s life had been taken in his stead.

“ _ He could’ve killed me if he wanted to. _ ” This assertion sent Aaron’s belly flipping into discomfort. He rubbed his hand in circles on Spencer’s back. Spencer’s pale hands trembled, twin silent tears sliding down his cheeks. “ _ I wish he would’ve. _ ” 

Spencer clung to the phone as Aaron enveloped him in his arms, pulling him close and holding him there. Spencer’s bare feet curled into the wet grass. He nestled up against Aaron’s chest, a thin noise coming from the back of his throat. Aaron pressed his face into Spencer’s fluffy, curly hair. It tickled his face. Spencer was safe here in his arms. As long as Spencer was here, pressed up against his body, burrowed in his embrace, nothing could happen to him. 

Touching the screen of the phone, Spencer drank in a baited breath as he played the message he had sent earlier. The sounds of the apartment falling to pieces, Spencer’s heavy breaths, followed by the gasped, “ _ I love you. _ ” The recording ended, and Spencer played it again, and he played it again, and he played it again—

“Sh,” Aaron soothed, smoothing his hair back out of his face. “I love you, too.” 

Was it so easy or so simple? No, it wasn’t. Under ordinary circumstances, Aaron could not have imagined himself saying it so fluidly, so readily, so without hindrance—and he couldn’t imagine Spencer doing so, either. It was the threat or the promise written upon the wall which drove both of them, drove them together, made them seek sanctuary in one another’s arms. What else could they do? Where else could they find this security? How else would Aaron ever trust Spencer was safe? How else would Spencer ever know that Aaron cared about his safety? They had no other choice. Fate had cosmically twisted them into this, and Aaron loved Spencer, he loved him and he could say it in such a way never would have said it before. 

Wiggling in his grasp, Spencer broke free when Aaron loosened his arms, and he typed on the phone again. “ _ Can I kiss you? _ ” 

It was dark, nothing surrounding them but a few night bugs and birds and the cold air on the cusp of autumn. No one would see. A single lamppost illuminated the courtyard, but who would look at them? A dead body would preoccupy everyone important in the building. Anyone else who saw would not have any say or hold any value over their relationship. Again, Aaron nodded. 

Spencer kissed him softly, the way a gentle horse would take a proffered treat from the palm of his hand, and Aaron kissed him in return. They demanded nothing from one another, nothing but the touch they both needed to feel like the world would not fall apart. Spencer grimaced and grunted in pain when Aaron touched his torso in certain places.  _ They hurt him. _ Aaron’s chest boiled with anger. Those cops had found Spencer, terrified in his own home, and had dragged him out past the body of one of his closest friends and beaten him in the hallway when he didn’t confess to her murder at the drop of a hat—as if Spencer could’ve spoken at all while they overstimulated him like that. 

Aaron’s right hand had begun to swell, but it was worth it for the bruise the cop would wear on his jaw for the next few weeks. Maybe he had done more damage, but he doubted the state of his fractured hands could get much worse. 

Spencer crawled into Aaron’s lap and sprawled across him, dangling there, his legs straddling him, chin resting on Aaron’s shoulder, arms loosely latching behind his back, and Aaron clasped his hands behind Spencer’s back, too, holding him there the way he would hold Jack when he got sleepy or cranky. Spencer’s warm breath wafted against his neck. Aaron counted the rhythm of each puff, gradually growing slower, and felt the sensation of Spencer’s eyelashes on his cheek with every blink. 

Aaron did not check his watch. He did not know what time it was. He did not know how long they had been out here—only that it was long enough for them to no longer feel the cold. With gentle hands, he mapped out Spencer’s back, noting each place that twinged with pain and made Spencer grimace or tense.  _ I’ll take him home. I have bruise ointment. He can take a shower, and I’ll put the ointment on him. _ If Spencer let him, Aaron would do it without hesitation. 

Eventually, Spencer turned his head, pressing his mouth into Aaron’s neck. “She saved my life once,” he mumbled into Aaron’s neck. He licked his lips, wetting them, face shifting. Aaron gave a hum of support to encourage him to continue speaking if he desired, and at the prompting, he did. “She found me…” His voice was thick, almost sleepy, almost slurred, and he cried little tears with the tremble inside of him. “… in the laundry room. ‘N carried me up the stairs… kept me on her couch. For three days. Until the worst of it was over.” Aaron rubbed his back in small circles, seeking the places he knew would not cause Spencer harm. “Always let me in when I needed her… Always let me stay… Never judged me, or asked too many questions.” He clutched Aaron tighter. “She said she wanted us to be happy together.” 

_ He told her. _ Spencer hadn’t told anyone else, not even JJ. He had told her. He had trusted her with his secret and had trusted her not to reject him or mistreat him for it. How much faith had Spencer put in this woman? Aaron could not know the depth of their relationship, of any relationship, forged on such a traumatic event. Spencer had been Cheryl’s friend for years. The unsub found something of value to him with immediate impact, and he had robbed Spencer of it. Rage and terror and sorrow all twisted knots into Aaron’s belly. Cheryl had supported Spencer in times when he had no one else. The unsub knew that when he chose her to die.

Spencer’s thin voice breached the silence again. “Do you think we ever will be?” he asked in a tiny, meek tone. 

Aaron’s eyes fluttered closed. “I hope so,” he whispered.  _ But I don’t know. _

…

The ringtone of JJ’s phone roused both of them from bed. JJ pressed her face deep into the pillow and groaned low under her breath. “Emily,” she mumbled, arm strung across Emily’s abdomen, “phone.” In the darkness and the befuddlement of sleep, she didn’t recognize the tones originated from her side of the bed, her nightstand. Emily had friends overseas. They tended to call her at odd hours. 

“Yours,” Emily muttered in return, her voice all thick with sleep. “Not mine.”

Blinking hard, JJ forced herself to rouse from her sleep and lifted her head from the pillow. “Huh?” Her tangled hair fell in twisted curtains around her face, and she fumbled across the mattress to the bedside lamp, flicking it on. It bathed the room in light. She picked up her phone and squinted at the lit screen. “It’s Will.”  _ It’s two-thirty in the morning. _ They had Henry; he was asleep in bed. What could Will want?

Emily rolled over onto her side and peered up at JJ. “I thought he had to work in the morning.” 

“He does.”

“Then why is he awake now?” 

Sure, initially Will had exchanged a few heated, drunken phone calls with JJ in the middle of the night, but that hadn’t happened in months; they had been more or less cordial over the past two or three months, enough that JJ had trusted him to tell him to keep an extra eye out for anything involving Spencer’s name or address. She hadn’t shared many details of the case, just enough to clue him in. “I don’t know,” JJ told Emily quietly. “I guess I’ll find out.”

She swiped the green button to take the call. “Hey,” she answered, “what’s up? What’s going on?”

He coughed into the phone. “Uh, hey.” In the background, the sound of a heavy door squeaking closed echoed around him. “So, uh, don’t freak out, okay?”

JJ pushed herself up onto the pillows. She turned up the volume all the way so Emily could hear, but she pressed her finger to her lips, telling her to keep quiet—infuriating Will was the last thing she wanted to do right now. “When you say that, it makes me want to freak out,” she reminded him, one hand coiling up in her hair. Emily took her hand and smoothed it out of her hair. “What’s wrong? Where are you? I thought your shift started at five.” 

“I’m at Spencer’s.” JJ’s heart skipped a beat. She choked on her breath. “The notification woke me up, and as soon as I saw his address, I came, like you said.”

“Oh my god,” JJ breathed. “Is he okay? What happened?” 

Will cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah, he’s alright. Well, he’s alive, which is better than I can say for…” He drifted off, deep in thought. “Well… your team is on it, so I’m sure they’ll give you a better idea of what went down when you review the evidence. But Spencer’s alright.” 

“Was someone murdered?” JJ pressed. 

He paused, considering the ramifications of his words. He technically was not supposed to share case details with her—but given she would receive the evidence anyway when the team received the case, him disclosing some facts to her would not cause her any harm. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Yeah. His neighbor. The old woman. She, uh… was left in his apartment. Beheaded. The whole place is torn upside down, JJ, it’s a wreck—I saw neater homes when I was in the Ninth Ward picking up after Katrina. Spencer is lucky to be alive. Whoever this guy is, he only left Spencer alive because he wanted him that way.” 

JJ pressed her palm to the side of her face. “Oh my god.” Her words passed in an exhaled breath. “Oh my god, he’s all alone—tell him I’ll be right there.” She rolled out of bed, putting the phone on speaker and leaving it there on the mattress.

“He’s not—Listen, this is absolutely none of my damn business, but he’s not alone.” At Will’s words, JJ froze, hovering over the side of the bed, her lips pursed and hands carrying a slight quiver. A weak whistling sound strangled out of Emily’s throat, and she grimaced, her teeth bared and eyes darting to the phone and then up to JJ, an almost guilty expression on her face, like she expected a rebuke.  _ What does she know? _ JJ didn’t have time to wonder. “That tall guy with the dark hair, the guy whose wife’s funeral we went to—”

“Hotch,” JJ supplied. “He’s there?”

Will made an uneasy sound. “He’s here, alright. He’s still your  _ boss, _ right?” Emily covered her mouth with one hand, eyes pinching closed, staring down at the comforter. 

JJ’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, he’s still my boss.”

“ _ And _ Spencer’s?” 

“Yeah, he’s—of course he’s still our boss. What are you talking about?”

“Look, I  _ know _ it’s none of my business, but Spencer is kind of my business—”

“ _ Tell me what’s going on, _ ” JJ pressed. 

“They’re kissing.” Whatever JJ had expected Will to say, that wasn’t it. Her mouth fell open in shock. Emily keened an embarrassed sound, pressing on her temples, like she willed away a headache brewing in her temporal lobes. “I thought—you know, I thought it was kinda weird, thought that Hotch guy was being a little handsy with him in here, but Spencer was all tore up, having one of those conniptions he has sometimes—”

“Meltdowns—” Emily corrected on reflex, forgetting she wasn’t meant to speak. 

Will either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “I thought he was just, like, fixing him from the meltdown, but I saw them out the window, and they’re… they’re sucking face. There’s no way around it, JJ, they’re definitely a—an item, or something. I can see them  _ right now. _ Spencer is sitting in his lap. It’s—It’s weird, and kind of gross? I need Spencer’s statement, but I’m afraid that Hotch guy will knock me out if I go out there. He sent one of my cops sprawling and took another one into a chokehold. That guy is not exactly emotionally stable.” 

Emily avoided JJ’s gaze aggressively.  _ She knew. _ JJ didn’t have to ask for confirmation; of course she knew. She knew, and she’d kept it a secret. JJ’s tongue darted out across her lips. “No, don’t—don’t worry about the statement, okay? I’ll come talk to them.” _ Them. _ What the hell could she say to Hotch? She supposed Emily could fill her in on what she knew. “Don’t bother them. Just let Spence rest. I’m sure he’s all kinds of torn up.” 

“Yeah,” Will echoed, “he is.” 

“I’m on my way. Give me half an hour, okay?” 

“See you soon.”

JJ ended the call. Emily coughed awkwardly. “When were you going to tell me?”

Emily folded the covers back. “Honestly? Wasn’t planning on it. It’s their business, not mine.” She turned on the lamp on her side of the bed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

JJ cocked her head. “You have to stay here with Henry,” she reminded Emily sharply. Emily’s eyes darted back to her. “What do you mean, it’s their business? Spence is my best friend, and he’s already going through hell. You don’t think I want to support him?”

“Babe, I  _ do _ think that, but it’s  _ their _ business. It’s supposed to be his job to tell you about those things… not mine.” Emily wore a sad face. “He didn’t tell me. I figured it out. And I talked to Hotch. I don’t even know if Spencer knows that I know.”

JJ frowned. “You don’t think Hotch told him?” Emily shrugged. “I just—I can’t believe Hotch would do that to him. With everything else he’s going through, he really doesn’t need any uncertainty right now. What does Hotch think is going to come out of this?” 

Pushing herself up, Emily took JJ by the hands. “Hey. I talked to Hotch,” she repeated. She squeezed her hands. “You don’t have  _ any _ reason to worry about Spencer on that front. I promise.” JJ’s eyes watered.  _ But Spence is so frail. _ She met Emily’s eyes. Spencer had never known a kind hand before he reached the BAU. Having anyone, much less a group of people, treat him with dignity and kindness was a novelty to him. He placed people on pedestals when they treated him well, and anyone who recognized that could take advantage of it, especially someone much older, a profiler, who had professional leverage over him. 

_ Hotch wouldn’t do anything like that. _ JJ knew it logically, knew Hotch was far too kind and compassionate to deliberately harm or exercise strength over anyone he cared about in his personal life. And he did care for Spencer. They all cared for each other. Still, JJ’s lower lip trembled. “Are you sure?” The world had stacked up against Spencer right now. To add a broken heart on top of it? JJ didn’t know if he could bear it, and more than that, she didn’t know if  _ she _ could bear to watch him carry any more suffering than the universe had already burdened upon his narrow shoulders. 

“I’m positive,” Emily insisted. “Hotch wants them to be together. He  _ told me _ that, so you know he has to mean it. He would never say anything like that unless it was true. You know that.” She reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind JJ’s ear. “They’re going to be fine.” Emily’s voice grounded her in this moment, in this twisted version of reality that had become their lives. “Spencer has all of us. We’ll get him through this. I promise.” She pressed a tender, chaste kiss to JJ’s lips. 

Something settled in the pit of JJ’s stomach, sediment kicked up from the river bottom reaching its place once more. “I’m afraid for them.” She was afraid for Spencer—but she was afraid for Hotch, too, for what this stress could mean for them, for their relationship, for the future of the BAU. Would this compromise everything? Only time would tell. 

“Go,” Emily encouraged. “Go. Spencer needs you. I’ll stay here with Henry.” 

JJ’s hands trembled as she donned her clothes, and she rushed out of the house to go to the rescue. 

On the lowest level of the apartment complex, Will waited for her. The cops were beginning to trickle out of the parking lot. A handful of CSI people wheeled out the body on the gurney, covered by a heavy, white sheet. Will held a lit cigarette between his fingers, flicking the butts onto the sidewalk, and as she approached, he snuffed it out. “Sorry,” he said, a reflex, because she had once admonished him every time he smoked under intense stress. 

Of course, she didn’t have a say anymore about whether or not he smoked; all she really cared about was that he didn’t do it around Henry or let it get on Henry’s clothes. “The way things have been lately,” she muttered as she followed him into the building, “I’m almost tempted to take a drag.” 

“That bad?” 

“It’s been rough.”

“Yeah, well, it’s about to get rougher.” Will cleared his throat. “Let me show you what you’re working with. I don’t want you to go in blind. That big guy, Hodge, or whatever—”

“ _ Hotch. _ ”

“Yeah, him, he’s pretty irate. I don’t want him flipping the table on you or something.” Will opened the laundry room and marched right up to the window. “You can see them out there.” Sure enough, across the lawn at the stone table in the courtyard, Hotch sat on the bench, Spencer draped peacefully across his lap, straddling his thighs, cheek resting on his shoulder, arms clasped loosely around his back, and Hotch’s arms fixed Spencer in place, too. “They were, uh… really necking earlier. Maybe I’m really misreading this whole thing, but it strikes me as pretty queer.”

JJ’s nose crinkled. “Please don’t use that word.” 

“Oh, sorry.” 

Will wasn’t deflecting and attacking her in return, so she knew with certainty this whole thing had him preoccupied. “You’re not,” she said, “misreading it… I didn’t know, but Emily did. I guess this is a whole thing now.” 

Will’s brow furrowed. “Spencer told Emily before he told you?”

“He didn’t tell her. She, y’know, profiled it, and confronted Hotch about it.”

Will snorted. “She confronted that guy? She’s a helluva lot braver than I am.” He crossed his arms. “So… do I get any hints about what’s going on here, since I wound up at Spencer’s apartment in the middle of the night with a dead body? Or are y’all still practicing your cryptic ways and leaving me in the dark?” 

_ He has a point. _ JJ had asked Will to look after Spencer, and he’d done what she asked. She owed him an explanation. “Spencer’s being stalked,” she said honestly. “We didn’t realize it, but it’s been going on for five years, and—and now that we’re counting the bodies, they’re piling up. The unsub’s getting bolder, and we don’t have any leads.”

“Why the hell isn’t he in WITSEC? Do y’all  _ want _ him to end up with his head on a stake?”

JJ shrugged, holding up her hands. “Strauss tried to arrange it. They both balked. Spencer thinks it isn’t safe, and Hotch… doesn’t exactly have very good reason to trust WITSEC, at this point, after what happened to Haley.” She cleared her throat. “They thought he was safe here. I don’t know what we’re going to do now. He won’t come home with me or Morgan.”

“He has to do something,” Will objected, obstinate. “His apartment is going to be a crime scene for the next few days, anyway. We won’t be able to let him in. He has to find somewhere to go. Somewhere safe.” 

“I’m sure Hotch will make it happen.” Before, Spencer could’ve argued that they had no evidence the unsub would pursue him into his home. Now, they could make no such claim, and he needed to stay with someone who could protect him.  _ But anyone he stays with will be in danger.  _ Her stomach did a sick flip. She knew it, and so did Spencer; he wouldn’t want to compromise the safety of anyone on the team to save himself.  _ Hotch will force him, if he has to. _ JJ hoped that was the case. “Thanks for coming.”

Will looked at her, almost but not quite soft. “Of course. He’s family.”

“You don’t really think that?”

“Sure. He’s family the way the annoying little brother is family. You want to strangle him all the time, but, like, you don’t want anyone  _ else _ to do it.”

In spite of herself, JJ chuckled. “Okay. That checks out.” She glanced back at Will, and again, she said, “Thanks,” as she pushed her way out of the laundry room, headed through the lobby of the apartment building, and exited into the courtyard.

The door closed silently behind her. As she strode across the grass, the dew licked her ankles. The chill of the night air shivered through her, and overhead, an owl hooted, and black bats danced across the navy, star-spattered sky. Heavy clouds drifted back and forth with the wind, occasionally blotting out the moon. She approached Hotch and Spencer, and a few yards back from the table, where neither of them had yet noticed her, she paused and soaked in the moment. Spencer breathed slowly, unmoving, almost like he had drifted off to sleep in Hotch’s embrace, and Hotch, with closed eyes, bowed his head forward and breathed into Spencer’s hair, massaged his back, touching him all over. 

Spencer didn’t like to be touched, but he covered Hotch’s whole body with his own, completely of his own accord, and even if JJ had had no other preconceived notions of what love looked like, she thought she still would’ve recognized this moment.  _ He lets Hotch touch him. And he likes it. _ Everything inside of her melted. She wanted to cry. 

She could have spent years standing here, watching them in the cold, but Spencer’s lips had tinged blue, and Hotch only wore shorts and a thin T-shirt with goosebumps all over his limbs, and the late September wind of the wee hours left her trembling, as well. She cleared her throat, unmoving. 

At the sound, Hotch lifted his head, flinching in surprise. His gaze found her. He regarded her with an angry sort of fear, eyes narrowed, head low, grip on Spencer’s body tightening, the way a feral cat would crouch over her nest of kittens to defend the family from a predator. JJ didn’t say anything. She approached and sat at the table across from them. The stone was cold and bit through her clothes.  _ How long have they been out here? They must be freezing.  _

Jostled by Hotch’s movement, Spencer made an unhappy little grumble, turning his head into the crook of Hotch’s neck. Hotch nudged him in return. “Spencer.”  _ He called him that before. _ JJ remembered now, outside the hospital, where she’d sat on the hood of the Suburban, she’d heard Hotch call Spencer by his first name—and Spencer had called him  _ Aaron,  _ too. It had struck her, then, but she had shaken it off, had dismissed it.  _ How long has this been going on? _ “Spencer. JJ’s here.” 

At his prompting, Spencer stirred, lifting his sleepy head from Hotch’s shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed and crinkled at the corners, and he peeked behind him. At the sight of JJ, he blinked once, twice, as if convincing himself she were real, not a specter, and then he brought his fists to his eyes and rubbed them behind his glasses, which were foggy and salt-stained from his tears. He slid, seemingly reluctantly, from Hotch’s lap onto the stone bench beside him and faced JJ. He gave a shy little wave. His face wore a grimace, something intended to be a smile, but he couldn’t manage it completely. He didn’t make eye contact with her. He stared at the cold stone table. One hand rested there on the table, drumming out little patterns, and the other remained entangled in Hotch’s hand like the teeth of a zipper finding all of the matching grooves. 

They fit each other perfectly, JJ realized, and Hotch’s eyes never once left Spencer’s face, his usually impassive expression overrun with concern. 

Had she been afraid of this? 

It was no more justified to be afraid of them, together, than it was to be afraid of her and Emily, than it was to be afraid of the gentle, cool, mid-autumn breeze currently tickling the courtyard. They were just as natural, just as right, just as perfect for one another. 

Emily was right. She didn’t have anything to worry about. 

“Are you both okay?” she asked, asked  _ both  _ of them, because she had no doubt this had traumatized Hotch as much as it had Spencer. 

Hotch looked at Spencer, deferring to him to answer, but Spencer looked back at him, either unable or unwilling to speak. Hotch coughed quietly, as if to shake the gruffness from his voice, and then he said, “I think we will be.” He didn’t look so certain. Spencer traced the back of Hotch’s hand, finding all of the knuckles and the ridges, but then Hotch gingerly pulled his hand away. “I’m going to talk to Detective LaMontagne and see what needs to be done.” He studied Spencer, waiting for some confirmation, and when Spencer gave a shaky nod, Hotch stood and left the courtyard. 

JJ took the seat he had occupied, if only because it was still warm from his body heat, and her ass was freezing on that cold bench. Spencer grabbed her and hugged her. JJ hugged him in return.  _ He’s so cold. _ His lips had gotten a bit of a blue tinge, and his bare feet were stiff. “How long have you been out here?”

“I dunno,” Spencer mumbled. “Long time.” His breath trembled. She couldn’t help but wonder if it stemmed more from fear and relief or the frigid air biting through them. “Please don’t be mad.”

JJ narrowed her eyes. “Mad? Why would I be mad?” Spencer shrugged. “Because of you and Hotch?” 

He licked his lips. “I… I didn’t tell you. You told me about Emily, I should’ve told you, I just… I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to know, we weren’t even sure until two days ago we were definitely going to stay together, y’know, after all this is over, and Emily figured it out, but he didn’t tell me that for awhile, and I should’ve told you, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not mad, Spence—I promise.” JJ touched his soft hair. “You have every right to keep secrets. Especially something like this.” She smoothed a hand down his back. “I know what it’s like,” she whispered, “when you love someone, and you can’t say anything to anyone, and all you want to do is tell the world how you feel about them…” His light brown eyes found her face and quickly darted away. “You can tell me. If you want to.” 

He drummed his fingers on the stone. His fingertips had whitened from the cold, the knuckles pink and chapped. “I thought you’d want me to talk about what happened.”

JJ was curious about that—about all of it, how it happened, how Hotch found out first and how he got here so quickly and how or why he socked one of the cops so hard that even Will was afraid of him—but she didn’t want to pressure Spencer. “Is that what you want to talk about?”

He sucked the inside of his cheek. “Not really,” he admitted quietly. He fidgeted with his hands. “I just…” A quiet sigh puffed out of him. “I’ve never… I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for him. I’m not sure that I—I can put it to words, the way he deserves.” He looked up at her again, almost afraid. “And I don’t want to freak you out.”

“What makes you think it’ll freak me out?”

“Because it’s Hotch, and I like it when he puts his tongue in my mouth.” 

_ Okay, he’s right, that does freak me out a little. _ “I’ll have some growing pains. I can adjust.” The idea of Hotch putting his tongue into anyone’s mouth made JJ feel a little icky, and knowing that Spencer was on the receiving end gave her a crippling urge to wire his jaw shut and wrap him in bubble wrap, but when she looked at them, she knew they were right. The rest would come with time. “Nothing you tell me can make me think less of you, or of him,” JJ vowed. She touched the back of Spencer’s hand, their two cold skins pressed up against one another’s. “When I saw you, the two of you, together… it looked right.” She trailed her index finger over the veins in the back of his hand. “Like you were made to fit right there with him. Or he was made to be there with you.” 

“Really?” He sounded skeptical. 

“Really,” she confirmed. “And even if I didn’t think that— _ you _ know better than anyone. You’re a grown man.” 

He gazed down at the rugged top of the table. “I feel pretty small right now.”

He sounded small, smaller than she had heard him sound in a very long time. In recent years, Spencer had developed a rebellious streak, one that reared its head when he faced intense stress and attacked injustice head-on. But now, that rebellious streak had vanished, and in its stead, he crumpled, looking small and submissive, the way he had looked on that screen in Tobias Hankel’s house. 

JJ didn’t like to hear him or see him that way. “Tell me about him,” she encouraged again, and this time, he complied. 

“I love him.” This took her aback, the first thing he said—Spencer, loving anyone, telling anyone, seemed so foreign to her. He had never found anyone he trusted enough to say those words, no one outside of the BAU; JJ knew that. “I… I thought I was going to die, and—and I sent him a voice message, saying it, even though—even though I didn’t want to make a noise. I wanted to make sure he heard it, if—if he didn’t get to see me again.” Spencer sniffled once, hard. JJ squeezed his hand. “I only feel safe when I’m with him. And he won’t say it, but he doesn’t like that, because he thinks he can’t protect me.” 

“He doesn’t want to lose you.”

“I know.” Spencer averted his eyes. “I—I told him he wouldn’t, in Atlanta, he wouldn’t lose me the way he lost her… I said it, not in those words.” JJ doubted either of them would ever be prepared to use their words in such a blunt way. They knew one another too well. Frank words would never do where body language and concerned looks would suffice. “I’m starting to think I might have made a promise I can’t keep.” 

“We aren’t going to let anything happen to you.” 

He worried his lower lip between his teeth. “We said that to Haley, too.” He turned his hand in hers. “Do you think it’s fair for me to do this to him? With what he’s been through before? Is it right for me to—to risk his heart like this?”

JJ tilted her head. “Spence,” she said pointedly, softly, “it wouldn’t hurt him any more to lose you now than it would if you separated yourself from him. I can promise you that. I lived it.” Emily hadn’t just run away from the team; she’d run away from JJ, too, without a word given to indicate otherwise. There was the pain, and on top of that, there was the confusion and the wondering and the not knowing—all things she would never wish upon anyone. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

He licked his lips. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of anything different.” 

The back door to the apartment complex swung open, and Hotch exited the building, heading across the courtyard. “He says we can go.”

“He doesn’t want a statement?” 

“Given the circumstances, he’s willing to let it slide. C’mon. We need to get you warmed up.” Hotch put an arm around Spencer’s waist and pulled him up. Spencer staggered and limped from his painful, ice cold feet. “JJ—thank you.”

JJ opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, Spencer interrupted her. “Wait. The cat.” 

Hotch stopped mid-stride. “The what?” 

“The cat. Gigi. Cheryl’s cat. Last night, at dinner, I promised her if anything happened to her, I’d take care of the cat.” Hotch put a hand in his own hair, almost crazed with the shocked look upon his face—that in addition to  _ everything else, _ Spencer wanted to take care of a  _ goddamn cat _ —

He bit back a sigh. “JJ, can you…” 

She shook her head. “Sergio doesn’t like other cats.” They had learned that the hard way after a brief foray in trying to get Henry a kitten. “But… Penelope has been pretty lonely without him. I don’t think she’d mind cat-sitting for awhile.” 

Spencer pursed his lips. “It’ll be pretty weird if we wake her up in the wee hours of the morning to drop off a cat.” 

Hotch touched the small of his back, and he led the way back into the building. “Weird is what we do around here. I’ll call her to let her know we’re coming.”

JJ took Spencer by the arm. “Let’s go catch the cat.” 


	23. Chapter 23

“Clothes mean nothing until someone lives in them.” -Marc Jacobs

…

Penelope sat in her living room, the single shade lamp turned on and illuminating the room. Otherwise, only strings of pink fairy lights flickered where she had mounted them on the walls. The wall clock read quarter after three. It ticked. Each second another moment in time, lost—another moment of sleep, lost. She rubbed her eyes with her fists and adjusted her glasses.  _ Maybe I should brush my hair. _ She looked down at her nighty, acutely aware that she hadn’t put on any clothes since Hotch had called her.

Hotch called her at nearly three in the morning and asked if she could take care of a cat. “ _ Just for a few days, _ ” he asked. And she had experienced a great number of bizarre requests from the BAU in her time, so she tried not to think too much of it, but coming from Hotch, this was quite possibly the weirdest thing he had ever asked of her, especially at such a strange hour. She ran her fingers through her rumpled hair. Outside, she listened to the sound of a motor pulling into the parking lot. She stood, went to the window, and looked outside. Below, Hotch parked his car. He turned on the cab light. 

At the light, Spencer grimaced in the passenger seat, covering his eyes. Hotch glanced over at him in concern.  _ What the hell is Spencer doing with him at three in the morning? _ Spencer wore flannel pajamas, and Hotch wore a tattered, stained T-shirt. Penelope narrowed her eyes.  _ Maybe I’m dreaming. That has to be it. I have to be dreaming. _ Hotch leaned over Spencer for a moment. The back of his head blotted out the exact details of the motion, but— _ Oh my god, Hotch just kissed him. Hotch just kissed Reid. Hotch just kissed Reid Hotch just kissed Reid Hotch just kissed Reid Hotch just— _

Now, she knew she was dreaming. 

But, in the interest of partaking in this dream, she remained by the window, watching as Hotch climbed out of his car, opened the back door, took out a pet taxi, and climbed the wooden stairs up to the second floor of her apartment building. She went to the front door and opened it before he could knock or ring the doorbell. “Hi,” she greeted him, almost breathless, tilting her head as she admired him in the outside light.  _ Is he going to kiss me, too? _ If dream-Hotch kissed Reid, there was every possibility dream-Hotch would also kiss her.  _ I’m not  _ **_not_ ** _ interested, but it might make work a little bit weird. _ “I should tell you preemptively I only have eyes for the keeper of my heart of hearts, Derek Morgan.” 

Hotch studied her, confused, his brow furrowed. “Duly noted,” he said with a nod.  _ Good. He won’t kiss me. _ The excitement of kissing her boss in her dream would never outweigh the awkwardness she would experience when she went to work tomorrow. “Er… this is Gigi.” The cat meowed from inside the pet taxi. She had a very realistic meow. Her bright eyes were life-like and whole.  _ Very vivid dream. _ Kissing someone in a dream like this would be quite fun.  _ Wish it were Morgan instead of Hotch. That’d be a blast. _ “She just needs a place to crash for a few days until—until things are worked out.”

_ What things? _ Penelope knew better than to ask too many questions of this dream world. That could make things get weird. So far, this dream was lucid and clear and made sense, and she liked that. “Okay,” she said with a nod. She took the cat. 

“If you need food, or, uh… the—the stuff that cats poop in—”

Penelope giggled.  _ Hotch said the word poop. _ “Kitty litter. I have everything she needs.” 

Hotch tilted his head. The concern on his face returned. “Penelope, are you okay?” he asked her, and the ludicrousness of this dream struck her. Hotch called her in the middle of the night to drop off a cat, and then he kissed Spencer in the passenger seat of his car, and then he marched up here in his pajamas and tried to tell her how to take care of a cat without knowing the words  _ kitty litter. _

“Oh, sure. This is just the weirdest dream I’ve had in awhile.” Telling the dream figure he was a part of her dream wasn’t always a good idea, but it was the best explanation. 

He blinked. “This—This isn’t a dream. This is real.”  _ Real? _ “Look, I—I have to go, Spencer is waiting.”

Penelope rubbed her eyes again. “Wait—okay,  _ what? _ ” If this wasn’t a dream, that meant this night had fast-tracked itself to the top three weirdest nights of her life. “Why—Why is he with you? What’s going on? Did something happen?” 

Hotch put the pet taxi down on the floor of her apartment. “Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Something did.” He cleared his throat, massaging his right hand with his left—the former was swollen and bruised, like he had punched something without protection. “I’m going to take him home with me and give him time to get cleaned up and rest. JJ will call everyone with updates and organize a meeting. Just—the cat, please?” 

“Of course!” Well, on the bright side, at least she had a cat again. “I feel compelled to tell you that I only pronounced my love for Derek Morgan because I thought you were a dream person, and usually in my dreams, the dream people like to kiss me, and that it was otherwise unrelated to this event.”

Hotch nodded. “Okay…” At one time, when he said  _ okay _ to her in that manner, it meant he would not-so-secretly order another drug test for her in a few days. Now, however, they both knew better. “Good to know. I’ll see you in a few hours. Thank you, Garcia.” 

“No worries, boss man. Kitty is in good hands with me.” 

She closed the door after him, locked it, and watched at the window as Hotch got back in the car.  _ Wait a minute… _

If this wasn’t a dream—had she just seen Hotch  _ actually _ kiss Spencer? She went to the window again, but the cab light was off, and the headlights blinded her so she could see nothing of them below, leaving her just as perplexed and befuddled as she had been five minutes ago. 

…

Spencer lifted his head from where he faced the floorboards of Aaron’s car when Aaron opened the door. The heat ran full-blast, filling the cab with warm, dry air, but Spencer still shivered. He cleared his throat and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “You’ve got a funny look on your face,” he whispered to Aaron.  _ Is that really what I want to say right now? _ Spencer had no doubt his own expressions over the past few hours had ranged from slightly perturbed to entirely deranged, and Aaron had yet to mock him for it. He averted his eyes. “Is Garcia okay with this?” 

He’d promised Cheryl he would take care of Gigi, and he would do it without hesitation, but given the circumstances… it was probably safer for her to stay with Garcia until they had a better idea of what the future would entail.  _ Unless Garcia is next, too. _ Spencer’s stomach did a sick flip. 

“She’s fine. She made a bizarre comment about how she wants to kiss me in her dreams, though.” Aaron buckled himself into the seat.

Spencer’s brow quirked. “Out of everything that’s happened recently,  _ that’s _ where you’re going to draw the line and start calling things bizarre?” 

“Oh, I started calling things bizarre a few weeks ago. Her comment took me aback, that’s all.” Aaron reached across the seat to take Spencer’s hand from where it rested on his knee. “How do you feel?” 

Whether Aaron meant emotionally or physically or something else entirely, Spencer wasn’t sure, but he  _ was _ sure he wasn’t ready to talk emotionally yet. “Cold,” he said, because it was true. Aaron wrapped Spencer’s smaller hand in his own, which had begun to swell and pinkened from the fresh trauma. “You need to ice your hand.” He said it in a flat voice. Accessing any emotion, even for expression—that sounded so difficult right now. If he bottled it up and shoved it down, he wouldn’t need to face it. 

Aaron studied Spencer’s face. “I will.” He uttered the promise in his quietest voice, like a vow. He reached to touch Spencer’s face. Spencer flinched at the way his thumb traced his cheekbone. Aaron licked his lips, looking apologetic, and withdrew his hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

He always  _ asked. _ He never assumed. Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed, trying to swallow past the lump budding in his throat again. But the moment he closed his eyelids, Cheryl rested on his couch—her hand tangled in her own hair, grasping her head like all the fantastical illustrations of the Headless Horseman—  _ I’m going to vomit. _ He’d thought it more than once. This time, he could not swallow it. He wrenched the door open and stumbled a few feet away from Aaron’s car before he doubled over. 

Chills wracked his whole body. He crossed his arms across his chest. His vomit splattered on the cement with a sickening sound. Hair sprang around his sweaty forehead and clung to it. His limbs wanted to give way, but collapsing in a puddle of his own vomit was not an experience he ever wanted to have while sober—he’d done it enough while high to know everything it entailed. 

He swayed on the spot. His body threatened to cave beneath him without his consent, until Aaron’s arms swept around behind him. “Spencer.” He sagged back against the warmth of Aaron’s chest. Aaron brushed his hair off of his forehead to keep it from sticking. “Are you done?” 

_ Valid question. _ “I dunno.” Spencer closed his eyes. Cheryl waited for him there. He opened him. The bright city lights streaked through his vision and blinded him. His head  _ throbbed. _ He took off his glasses with shaking hands.  _ That makes it worse. _ His astigmatism triggered little wobbling halos around the traffic lights. “I—I think so.” He’d emptied his stomach, anyway. There wasn’t much else for him to bring up except bile. 

With his bare hand, Aaron wiped away the spittle and fluid from around the corners of Spencer’s mouth. “Here.” He cracked open a bottle of water. “Rinse your mouth out.” He held the bottle to Spencer’s lips, and Spencer obeyed, his eyes falling half-lidded while he struggled to keep his bearings. “Are you going to pass out?”  _ I don’t know, maybe. _ Spencer tried to shake his head. It made the world around him more woozy. Aaron pushed the bottle of water into his pocket and picked Spencer up with both arms. “Sit down.” 

He planted Spencer’s rump on the seat of the car and turned down the heat. Spencer quivered and sweated. “S-Sorry—” A stammer returned to his voice. 

“Don’t apologize.” Aaron crouched before him, eye-to-eye, and pressed his fingertips to Spencer’s radial artery. “Are you getting a migraine?” Spencer nodded.  _ I’ve never had one that made me vomit before. _ Probably related to the acute event—he hoped. “I don’t want to give you ibuprofen. It will irritate your stomach.”  _ I told him that, _ Spencer remembered vaguely,  _ nonselective COX inhibitors can cause erosive gastritis— _ “Do you want some Dramamine?” 

Spencer nodded. He could take Dramamine. Aaron opened up the glove compartment and took out a box of pills, popping open two of the blister packages and placing them in Spencer’s hand. Spencer took them and swallowed them with the water. Aaron gingerly touched his forehead and his cheeks with the back of his hand. “You feel really warm.” Spencer’s eyes found his. “Are you okay to ride to my apartment? So you can shower and brush your teeth and rest for a few hours.”

_ I don’t want to rest. _ But the pulsing between Spencer’s temples told him he soon would not have much of a choice—and if the headache didn’t put him out of commission, the Dramamine would knock him out. “Yeah,” he whispered in return. “I’m okay.” It hurt to keep his eyes open. It hurt to close them and see her staring at him from her own lap. It hurt to play their last conversation in his head over and over and over—

The car door slammed as Aaron sat in the driver’s seat again. The sharp noise jostled Spencer out of his reverie. He turned down the heat some, and then he backed the car out of the parking lot with his arm around the back of Spencer’s seat. When he entered the street, his hand rested on Spencer’s knee. Spencer took it, both of his hands tangling up in Aaron’s fingers. “Thank you.” Aaron gave him a tender look and a soft squeeze in return. 

Aaron did not speak for the duration of the car ride. At every stop light and sign, he glanced at Spencer, making sure he was still there, or still awake, or still alive—Spencer wasn’t sure which. Spencer kept his eyes open, pointing down to the floorboards of the car, where he could see Aaron’s feet rise and fall on the pedals but the streetlights didn’t irritate his line of sight. If he didn’t close his eyes, Cheryl wouldn’t stare back at him. If he didn’t close his eyes, he wouldn’t see that peaceful line on her lips, the easy expression she always wore, and he wouldn’t realize that the unsub struck her so quickly she didn’t even have time to be surprised, and he wouldn’t think that the unsub only had to use a simple ruse of needing directions or being thirsty for Cheryl to allow him into her home without hesitation. 

Except now he thought of all of those things, and he thought of the man behind the mask, and he wondered if the man had worn his glasses into the building, if Cheryl had wondered why he wore weird glasses with the lenses punched out of them or if she had noticed how much they resembled Spencer’s glasses. He wondered if she had felt a distinct cold chill telling her not to proceed and did so anyway. He wondered if her intuition had said a goddamn thing or if she had walked willingly into the arms of death. 

He wondered if that mellow white light had taken her as readily as it had taken him.

He wondered if that blackness which had consumed Emily waited for her, instead. 

Aaron squeezed his hand, drawing him out of his thoughts as he pulled into the apartment complex. “Careful.” He went around to Spencer’s side of the car. Under other circumstances, Spencer would’ve griped about his entirely unnecessary chivalry, but the warmth of Aaron’s arm around the small of his back drew him in, a moth to a flame. “There’s some glass.” Spencer examined the refraction of light on the asphalt where it reflected back at him, a shattered semblance of his own reflection. Aaron guided him around the pile of glass, but Spencer’s gaze was transfixed upon it, struggling to tear himself away—why, he wasn’t sure. 

Maybe because the fractured image of himself reflected his current internal state better than any mirror ever had. 

The stairs were a lot. Spencer was tired. The stairwell was dimly lit. Aaron stayed close to him, patiently allowing him to catch his breath on the landings, until they reached Aaron’s apartment. Aaron had left all the lights on, things strewn around haphazardly, not the way Aaron usually liked things arranged—Spencer had not been in his apartment before, but he knew from working with Aaron and from rooming with him that he preferred things in some amount of order. “You left in a hurry,” he observed. 

Aaron turned off the lights one by one to protect Spencer’s eyes. “I tend to hurry when I think someone’s life is depending on it.”  _ Right. _ Spencer didn’t know what to say in response to that. He averted his eyes. Aaron took him by the wrist. “Here.” He didn’t turn on the bathroom light, instead fumbling around in near-complete darkness as he squatted down in front of the cabinet under the sink, reaching into it in search of something. Standing, he pulled free a brand new boxed toothbrush. “You can brush your teeth and shower. I’ll get you some clean clothes.” 

Exhaustion tugged at Spencer’s bones like an incessant child begging for a lollipop. “Thank you,” he whispered. The dim light of the hallway illuminated the bathroom through the open door, and only through that faint light did he discern the shape of a tube of toothpaste. Unboxing the toothbrush, he unscrewed the cap of the toothpaste, squeezed some onto the bristles, wetted them, and then leaned over the sink to try to rid himself of the taste of piss that still lingered inside his mouth. 

He spat more than once and rinsed his mouth with warm water. Aaron brought him a pair of neatly folded basketball shorts and a T-shirt. “You feel a little more human now?”

Spencer gulped. The toothpaste flavor burned his throat. He hated it. “Not really,” he admitted in a bare whisper. Aaron’s gaze softened. He placed the clean clothes on top of the rack of clean towels and washcloths. “Can I hug you?” Spencer asked. 

The request felt juvenile as it floated from his lips, but Aaron granted it without hesitation. He folded Spencer into his embrace. Spencer braced himself, half-expecting Aaron to squeeze him, but he didn’t; he paid close attention to all of the sensitive, bruised spots where the police had battered Spencer’s body, and he carefully avoided those areas. Spencer rested his cheek on Aaron’s shoulder and smelled his neck. Aaron rocked him back and forth in the air. The rhythm of it soothed him like a lullaby. 

Spencer closed his eyes. She waited for him there. They fluttered open again with a short gasp. “You alright?” Aaron asked, smoothing his hand down Spencer’s back in some attempt to bring him comfort. 

_ No, I’m not. I’m not alright. I can’t close my eyes without seeing her. I don’t know why this happened to her. I don’t know why this is happening to me. She’s gone, and it’s my fault, and I’m with you, now, so if he wants to hurt someone else, he’ll hurt you, and I could never forgive myself for that, I won’t ever forgive myself for this, I thought she was safe— _ “Yeah,” he mumbled into Aaron’s skin. 

They mutually understood he told a lie. 

Aaron held Spencer until he pulled away, satisfied from the hug. “Thank you.” Aaron had no reason to offer him any of this—his kindness, his body, his home—and the gratitude flushed through Spencer, how undeserving he was, and yet Aaron looked at him and saw someone worth touching, someone worth holding, someone worth saving. 

“Of course.” Aaron held him at arm’s length for a moment, scanning him as if to verify one last time that Spencer was real, that he was alive. Then he dropped his hands from Spencer’s body. “I’m right outside if you need anything, alright?” Spencer nodded. 

He left the door cracked open a few inches so the steam could escape and so he could see out into the rest of Aaron’s apartment. He couldn’t see Aaron exactly, but Aaron was there. He trusted that. Undressing himself quickly, Spencer left his soiled pajamas in a puddle on the floor. The shower water cranked hot, steam exhaling from it, and he adjusted the temperature until he could stand beneath the stream, albeit uncomfortably, the hot water scalding his skin and flushing him bright pink from head to toe. 

The unsub had not touched him. No one had poured blood on him, not like the last time. He hadn’t been exposed to HIV this time. He had no reason to feel so unclean. And yet he scrubbed at his flesh until he felt he had stripped all of the old Spencer away and replaced him with a new, tender skin. 

It didn’t help. 

Neither did the tears rolling down his cheeks, nor the shampoo burning in his eyes. He smelled like a weird combination of icy mountain manliness (Aaron’s body wash) and fruity fun (Jack’s shampoo). When thrust beneath the water, his face stung, and he fought the urge to withdraw, allowing the heat to send fiery, agonizing sensations through his body. Breathing in the steam, floating in this cloud, if he projected hard enough, he could forget this moment and every hellish thing in the world right now. He could remember a better time, a more peaceful time. 

But he always thought of Cheryl when he wanted to focus on a happy memory. He always found an image of her when they watched musicals together, or when they had dinner together, or when they walked to the park together. He could not use those memories now. It hurt too much. Everything hurt far too much. 

He turned off the water. Standing there for a long moment, he allowed the cloud of steam to dissipate from around him, leaving him breathless and shivering, his skin sore to the touch. Lifting one leg, he stepped out of the shower onto the rug. The other leg followed. He moved like a robot, like a machine, every motion deliberate and thoughtful. Bending over, he reached for a towel. 

Blotting uselessly at his skin, he grimaced at the places he had burned himself, now too raw for him to wipe away the moisture. He tucked the towel around his waist, trying to decide how to proceed. 

“Spencer?” Aaron knocked at the door. It jostled in the frame but did not swing open. “I have some cream for your bruises.”  _ My bruises. _ His bruises, his self-inflicted burns, the scars of every bully that had ever laid a hand on him, the marks where needles had once penetrated his tissue and veins, all those things bled together for him. Spencer reached for the door handle and pulled it open. The dim light illuminated Aaron, shock coloring his expression and his voice when Spencer opened the door wearing nothing but a towel. But it quickly dissipated. “You’ve burned yourself.” 

Aaron turned on the light. Spencer grimaced at the sudden brightness. With the door now wide open, the steam rapidly fanned out of the room, and the heat wrapping Spencer in its embrace abandoned him and left him shivering. Aaron took a smaller towel from the rack and blotted away at Spencer’s swollen, flushed skin. He didn’t rub, careful not to cause too much friction. “Am I hurting you?” 

_ How many times is he going to ask me that? _ “You’ll never hurt me.” Spencer had previously always answered a simple  _ no _ , but Aaron kept asking him, so he changed his answer, hoping to reassure him. Spencer averted his eyes to alleviate the insecurity he faced now, Aaron’s bare hands on his bare chest, everything stripped for Aaron’s viewing, nothing covering Spencer’s body but a measly towel. 

Uncapping the tube of bruise cream, Aaron squeezed a dollop out onto his fingertips and applied it to the darkest, largest set of bruises. “I know you think that.” 

“I know it,” Spencer said. “Whether or not you do. I trust you, even if you don’t trust yourself.” 

He hadn’t said so many words in a coherent string since JJ had left. It surprised both of them, his commitment to Aaron’s goodness. Aaron licked his lips. The uncertainty lingered on his face, afraid to speak, afraid of himself, afraid of whatever lurked around every corner ahead of them. Finally, he murmured, “I’m glad you feel that way.” His fingers probed at the purple markings across Spencer’s torso. He applied the cream to every single one. 

His gaze did not roam surreptitiously, did not linger on Spencer’s body. He handled Spencer between his hands like a ceramic figurine, like champagne glass, and did not look directly at him.  _ I want him to touch me. _

Was that why he had done this? Spencer wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what, exactly, had possessed him to open the door, almost completely naked, and invite Aaron in. But he did know he wanted Aaron to take him between his hands and touch him, touch him like he wanted something from him. Aaron capped the tube of cream. Spencer grabbed two fists full of his T-shirt and tugged him in close, a request, a  _ please, _ and Aaron granted the request graciously, their mouths connecting like magnets of opposite poles drawing one another in. 

His hands framed Spencer’s ribcage. With each inhalation of breath, Spencer’s torso expanded into Aaron’s grasp, inflating like a balloon, and Aaron’s hands molded around him like fluid. Loose fists clutched at Aaron’s T-shirt. Spencer’s heavy eyes burned, but if he closed them, he would see her, and he didn’t want to see anything but Aaron right now, nothing but the way Aaron held him between his two large hands and worshipped him as if at the base of an idol. 

Spencer’s hands pawed upward at Aaron, all clumsy, and strung his arms around his neck. The Dramamine had slowed his senses and his reactions, making it difficult for his mouth mirror Aaron’s, but with a neat string of kisses, Aaron’s mouth left his, peppering lightness down his jawbone. “Oh—” The breathless sound escaped Spencer. He tilted his head, widening the access point for Aaron. Aaron’s broad fingers dug into his skin. They did not press his bruises or his burns, spreading out in such a way to cause him no pain but to still allow Aaron to grab onto him. Aaron’s tongue darted across the most vulnerable place of his carotid artery. “ _ Oh! _ ” Spencer tightened his hold around Aaron’s neck. 

“Sh, sh…” Aaron’s mouth never deviated, never did anything too sloppy—all tidy and deliberate, and that made it more agonizing for Spencer, who squirmed under his hands and who  _ knew _ this would lead to nothing, who  _ knew _ Aaron would not let it go any farther, and yet he craved it. Spencer keened at teeth scraping down his neck with just enough firmness to make his skin blanch. Aaron’s mouth broke away. His breath wafted across the damp spots on Spencer’s neck. He breathed a quiet, rueful sort of chuckle. “You need to rest, Spencer.” There were his hands on Spencer’s trunk, beginning to withdraw, and Spencer desperately put his hands over Aaron’s to hold them in place on his skin. “Yes?” Aaron asked.

“Will you kiss me some more?” Spencer begged. Aaron frowned. He took one of his hands and brushed the backs of his knuckles against Spencer’s cheekbone, considering as he studied Spencer’s face. “ _ Please. _ ” Spencer sucked on the inside of his cheek. “I—I just need to think about something else for awhile. You’re the only thing that makes it all silent.” That was a lie; he was not  _ the only thing, _ but he was indeed the only thing Spencer wanted to do right now, or ever again. He craved the silence, that was true, but never so much to surrender his sobriety. 

Aaron leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to Spencer’s cheek. “Yes.” Spencer licked his lips and puckered up, standing on his tiptoes, as if to hasten the process. Aaron put a hand on his chest, right over his breast, and pushed him back down onto his flat feet. “In bed. With clothes on. You’re going to get cold again.” Goosebumps had already erupted all over Spencer’s arms and legs in response to the chill. Heat left his body through the minor burns, and he was wet and naked. He hadn’t realized it with Aaron touching him, but he did now, as Aaron’s body left his and turned away.

Aaron did not close the bathroom door, and neither did Spencer, gazing after him before he quickly shrugged himself into the T-shirt and the shorts. The T-shirt fit him like a dress; Aaron was simply so much  _ broader _ than Spencer, and it showed when Spencer tried to cinch up his shorts. He pulled the drawstring as tight as it would go and tied it off, but nevertheless, the shorts attempted to pool around his ankles, and he held them up like a little kid as he plodded off after Aaron down the hall toward Aaron’s bedroom.

Like Spencer had told him, Aaron had his right hand under an ice pack. His left, he occupied with scrolling down his cell phone. 

Spencer studied the room where he stood in the door frame, Aaron not yet noticing him. It was almost juvenile in a way, the bed fitted into the corner with only one nightstand, the desk organized with legal pads and pencils and pens in a particular order, the chest slightly dusty as if no one had had time to clean in awhile, the book case done by category rather than by author or Dewey decimal system (Spencer wondered if it would bother Aaron terribly for him to fix it, but then he decided given the circumstances, it was better not to ask and to try to forget about it at the moment). Aaron had an alarm clock on his nightstand that released an electronic buzz. He cleared his throat. Aaron glanced up at him. He crawled up the foot of the bed to the spot between Aaron and the wall and curled up there, and Aaron tugged the covers up over him, nestling him into them like a caterpillar into a cocoon. 

Aaron rolled onto his side, facing Spencer, whose eyes grew heavier now that he rested under the weighted blanket he’d given Aaron. “Feeling sleepy now?” Spencer nodded. “Good… You need to rest.” He caressed Spencer’s cheek with his left hand, his fingertips barely grazing the surface of his skin.  _ I never liked to have my face touched before. _ But now he relished in it, could lean into the caress and feel the warmth and wholeness of it thrumming into his skin. 

Eyelashes fluttering in resistance, Spencer shook his head. Aaron tilted his head quizzically at him, as if to ask why he refused. “I can’t sleep,” he insisted. “I can’t close my eyes.” Aaron put an arm around his waist, drawing them nearer together. Spencer leaned into the warmth. “Kiss me… please.”  _ I’m needy, I’m clingy, he won’t want to do it, he’s going to get tired of me, I’m lucky he let me come here at all. _

Supple lips enveloped Spencer’s own, like before, and the mouth cut off his train of thoughts derailing into self-hatred. Spencer tugged at Aaron’s shirt, convincing him to lie on top of him, and reluctantly, Aaron did so, rolling on top of Spencer and bracing himself above him on his forearms. “Am I hurting you?” 

“Never.” Spencer’s hands curled up in Aaron’s hair. Aaron bent his head forward. His face pressed into the crook of Spencer’s neck—not kissing him, just lingering there, as Spencer scraped his fingernails against Aaron’s scalp. Like warm clay, Aaron melted in his hands, turning to putty, surrendering control. He mumbled a satisfied sound against Spencer’s skin—something that might’ve been a happy sound in a different world, under different circumstances, in a different universe where they were brought together in a different situation. “Do you like that?” Spencer asked in a whisper. Aaron hummed his agreement. More of his weight pressed down on Spencer’s body. He was cautious in how he distributed himself, not allowing himself to crush Spencer to the mattress.  _ I think I would like that. I think I would like him to squish me. _ Spencer could think of nowhere more secure than the sensation of another person’s weight holding him in place, meshing all of his proprioceptors together until his anxiety melted away. 

Suddenly, kissing didn’t seem as important anymore. He scratched at Aaron’s scalp, occasionally encountering a bump or a nick in the skin. His hair wasn’t quite feathery, but it wasn’t coarse, either, and it had a recognizable smell.  _ Head and Shoulders. _ Spencer recognized it because his mother had used it, though the female version. Once her condition had deteriorated so she forgot to care for herself, she developed dandruff, and Spencer had bought that kind for her. It had helped when she remembered to use it, but that hadn’t happened often.

Aaron shifted against Spencer. “You alright?” 

“Mhm.” Spencer wasn’t  _ alright, _ no, but he was as alright as he could possibly be, given the circumstances, more alright here than he would be anywhere else in the universe. His eyelids fluttered. Behind them, it burned with need, the need to get some more sleep—more than the scanty hour he had gotten when he’d heard the sounds of something, someone, beating around in his apartment. “Aaron?” he whispered. 

“Yes?” 

“I…” Spencer’s mouth dried. He swallowed hard around it. “I’m sorry you got dragged into all of this.” 

“Spencer,” Aaron objected softly. He roused his head from the crook of Spencer’s neck, shaking his hands from his hair. “I  _ want _ to be here. I  _ want _ to be with you. I wish it were simpler than it is, but it’s not your fault that it’s not.” Spencer averted his eyes. Aaron’s hand returned to his cheek. “Listen to me.”  _ I am listening. _ Spencer’s gaze flicked to him and away again, and Aaron considered that response enough. “I love you,” he said firmly, without argument, with such force that Spencer’s very bones rattled with it, such conviction that his blood vibrated with the truth pumping toward his heart and into his lungs. 

Spencer never forgot anything, but he suspected the echo of Aaron’s convicted voice would ring through all the hollow tissues of his body for months after this. 

His throat felt tight, unable to force air past the forming lump without choking, and he wouldn’t choke up right now, he  _ wouldn’t _ , that would be too embarrassing, but his face must’ve betrayed him, because Aaron sat up and collected him in his arms and wreathed them both in the blanket so tightly that Spencer could not determine blanket from Aaron from himself, all tangled up in themselves and in one another. 

Burying his face into Spencer’s fluffy hair, Aaron breathed, “And I’m going to do everything in my power to protect you.” 

_ He doesn’t make a promise. _ It hurt Spencer’s insides—not that Aaron wouldn’t promise him, but that making promises had gone so badly for Aaron in the past that he felt he could not make another one, that Aaron feared making a vow he couldn’t keep. 

That Aaron thought this promise was one he had the potential to lose. 

Face nuzzling into Aaron’s chest, Spencer’s arm tentatively slid around his body, on top of his T-shirt; he was not so bold as to touch Aaron’s bare skin without his permission. For a long moment, Spencer didn’t think he could speak, but when the tears in his throat finally abated, he felt he could speak again, and he said, “I love you, too.” Aaron’s fingers grazed along his spine, careful to keep him wrapped up and warm, not irritating the places he had burned or been bruised. “I…” _ I don’t know how to say what I want to say to you. _ “I’m not going anywhere, Aaron.” Was that good enough? Did that tell enough about the content of his soul? Did it reassure Aaron enough from the fears that lived inside of him?

“I know.” Spencer had not managed to assuage Aaron’s grief or his concern. He did not try again. 

Instead, he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, deep in thought.  _ LAST WARNING. _ The words painted on his apartment wall in Cheryl’s blood beamed through his mind. He quivered. Aaron squeezed him tighter. “What…” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “What do you think it means?” he asked in a bare whisper. “The… the words.” 

“I think you need to rest, and we’ll figure out the rest later.”

Spencer’s head still throbbed. It lessened when he closed his eyes, but she was there, and he did not want to see her there. “What did I do wrong? Why did I get a warning? What does he expect from me? Why…”  _ Why me? _ Spencer inhaled deeply, reminding himself of Aaron’s nearness, the scent of his cologne. Those arms and that scent had lifted him from the earth at Marshall Parish, had brushed past him when he erupted from the elevator, had followed him around the country, had protected him from a masked figure, had just hours ago socked a cop in his honor. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. You know that. You’re a victim.”

“I’m a profiler. I should know better.” 

“No, you shouldn’t.” Aaron kissed the crown of his head. “Get some sleep. Don’t make me sing you a lullaby.” 

Spencer peered up at him. “Would you?” 

“ _ No. _ ” 

“Didn’t think so.”  _ But he has a nice voice, I bet he sings well, I don’t think he’d ever let me hear it, but I bet he does. _ “Will you… tell me about that musical? The one you said Haley liked?  _ Into the Woods? _ ” Aaron had mentioned a handful of musicals, but that was the one that intrigued Spencer the most—after all, he’d just seen  _ Sweeney Todd,  _ and Aaron had narrated parts of  _ Pirates of Penzance _ to him, and he knew  _ Wicked _ was some weird sing-song remake of  _ The Wizard of Oz  _ which disappointed him because  _ The Wizard of Oz _ was a classic film he loved and he did not wish to see it tarnished.

“Sure.” Aaron touched the back of Spencer’s neck, rubbing little circles there. “ _ Into the Woods _ is about a cast of fairytale characters who all wind up in the same universe…” Spencer listened to the rhythm of Aaron’s lulling voice until he could no longer hold his eyes open, and he drifted off to sleep. 

…

The sensation of warm breaths puffing against Spencer’s cheeks stirred him from sleep. He lazily turned his head. Aaron had fallen asleep with his hand in Spencer’s hair, body curled up around him like a shield.  _ I wonder why he sleeps like this. _ It was a peculiar thing for an adult to sleep with their bed up against the wall, Spencer thought, instead of in the center—more difficult to make up the bed that way, plus the implication that one slept alone and leaving no room for a partner to join in. For someone who had once been married, it surprised Spencer. 

_ I have to pee. _ But he was so comfortable here, Aaron’s body warming his under the heavy blanket, that the idea of rising from this moment saddened him. Muted snores fluttered out from between Aaron’s slightly parted lips.  _ He’s snoring. Does he always snore? He didn’t snore much before. _ Spencer didn’t like to hear him snore. The risk of sleep apnea increased with age, and with Aaron’s genetic health history, the consequences of untreated sleep apnea could be devastating. Spencer touched Aaron’s face and shifted it. For a long moment, he didn’t snore…

And then, with a great gasp, a louder snore groaned out of him. Spencer flinched at the suddenness. The movement jostled Aaron. He blinked a few times, going, “Hm?” as his sleepy eyes adjusted to the sunlight of the room. “You alright?” He met Spencer’s wide-eyed gaze. He glanced over his shoulder, confirming they were alone—there was no one in the room, nothing obvious to have triggered Spencer’s concern. “Spencer?”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“What?”

_ I probably should give him a little more information than that. _ “A sleep study. You need to have a sleep study done.”

Aaron narrowed his eyes, not quite grasping the topic yet. He pulled his hand out of Spencer’s hair and rubbed at the side of his face, trying to wake himself up. “Okay… You’re going to have to explain a little bit more. Why?” 

“You’re snoring.” 

“Yeah.” 

The nonchalant response alarmed Spencer. “You know? Sleep apnea isn’t good. With your medical and genetic history, it could be fatal. Sleep apnea can contribute to heart disease, stroke, and diabetes.” 

Pushing a hand through his hair, Aaron hummed, “Mhm.” Spencer’s eyes widened at the second indifferent response. Seeing his response, Aaron amended, “I’m fine.” 

“You’re going to have to tell me a little more than that if you want me to believe you.” 

The corners of Aaron’s mouth creased, not in a smile, but in a grimace. “Don’t worry about it, Spencer,” he insisted.  _ You know it’s not that simple. _ Spencer’s lips formed a purse of distaste. With a sigh, Aaron relented. “I was on some medications for awhile that had sleep apnea as a side effect. I don’t take them anymore. Sometimes I still snore. I’m fine.” 

_ What medications? _ Spencer wanted to press; he wanted to demand  _ all the information _ so he could judge the situation to the best of his ability. He couldn’t make a well-rounded assessment without all the facts. But Aaron didn’t owe him any of the facts, and if he wanted to say the names of the medications, he would’ve done it. “Does your doctor know?” he asked instead, since that was the more pertinent question. “That you still snore sometimes? Are you going to have a sleep study done?” 

“Spencer,” Aaron said pointedly, almost a warning. “You’ve slept with me this many times. How many times has my snoring bothered you?” 

“This is the first time.” Aaron made a gesture at him, as if to ask him to consider, but Spencer insisted, “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

A low chuckle left Aaron’s lips. “It does mean something.” He rolled onto his back and stretched out his limbs. His knees and elbows popped. The ice pack had fallen on the bed beside them and melted under their bodies. His hand had swollen up. “It means you’re just as anxious as I am.” 

“I don’t think I ever would’ve disputed that.” Aaron breathed a short chuckle out of his nose. “So you admit that you’re anxious?” 

“Never.” Aaron pushed himself up onto the side of the bed and checked his phone. “We’re running late. I told JJ to have everyone in the bullpen at eleven.” 

“What time is it?”

“Ten.” 

“Shoot.” Spencer fumbled around for his glasses and stuck them on his face. He looked down at himself in these ridiculous, baggy clothes. “Do you have… anything else I can wear?”  _ I don’t think anything he owns is going to fit me. _ Aaron was about his height, but he was twice as broad as Spencer, and Spencer would be swimming in anything he wore from Aaron’s closet. 

Aaron scanned him. “As much as I’d love to see you go to work wearing that, you can wear some actual clothes.” He touched the back of Spencer’s hand, almost absent in the way he did it, their grips fitting into one another’s easily. “How’s your head?” 

The concern, the question, took Spencer back—a surprise, that someone had noticed, that someone remembered, that someone cared, that Aaron was that someone. The dull ache between his temples had faded from piercing into a loose, vague sort of throbbing, and given the circumstances, Spencer didn’t think he would get much better than that. “Better than before.” Aaron’s large, warm hand covered his like a blanket. “The sleep helped,” he admitted. It had seemed so difficult before, the idea of closing his eyes and surrendering to it, allowing himself to succumb to something so deep. 

_ I slept and she died. _

Spencer’s stomach did a sick flip. He gulped. Aaron squeezed his hand, grounding him in the moment, and Spencer glanced up at his face. “I’ll find you something to wear and make us some breakfast, okay?” 

_ Make us some breakfast. _

Cheryl would’ve liked that, Aaron cooking for him. Spencer liked it, too, in the sad way he could like it now, acknowledging everything that had brought them here.  _ It feels tainted, almost. _ Was it right? Was it right to allow everything to tarnish how he felt about this? On the other hand, was it right for him to appreciate this when he knew everything that had led to it?

Aaron kissed him, and Spencer felt more pure than he had in his whole life. All the consecrated imagery of seraphim and cherubim had never paralleled how untarnished Spencer felt with his face pressed between Aaron’s hands, his lips on Aaron’s lips. Spencer did not believe in divinity, but if he did, he would worship this—not Aaron himself, but the way Aaron made him feel. Disrespecting this? Sacrilege. 

Aaron stroked Spencer’s cheek before he rose from the bedside. Spencer drew himself up by the side of the bed, watching Aaron as he opened the closet door and pulled free some trousers and shirt, holding them out to him. Spencer stretched. His knee popped. “Thanks.” He took the proffered clothing and went to the bathroom. 

Leaving the door open only a crack, Spencer derobed and wriggled into the clothes Aaron had given him. 

The situation was worse than he had anticipated.  _ I could fit two of me in this shirt… and the pants. _ Spencer had worn bathrobes that fit more tightly. The trousers sagged around his ass. The shirt hung limply, too long around him where he didn’t have the breadth to hold it up.  _ I look ridiculous. _ Morgan would almost certainly say something to him about looking like an elf that had stolen Santa Claus’s suit. It wasn’t even an unrealistic comparison. The clothes weren’t his style—he couldn’t say he’d worn anything like this except to funerals in a long time. 

He washed his face in the sink and stared at himself in the mirror, picking through his curls with a comb to try to make them lay flat, or at least give them the appearance he had attempted to groom himself. Then, he washed his hands and left the bathroom, heading to the kitchen. 

Aaron had already changed, as well, looking much more kempt than Spencer. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and worked at the counter, mixing up some kind of batter. “Waffles or pancakes?” Spencer asked. 

“Pancakes.” Aaron glimpsed behind him, faced forward again, and then, thinking a second time, looked behind him again. He swept Spencer with his gaze. 

Spencer flushed. “I look that ridiculous?” 

“You don’t look particularly comfortable, no.” 

Spencer approached behind him, peering at the batter as he mixed it up. “Can I help?” He didn’t know much about cooking, and he would readily admit that, but he wanted to try to help, if he could. 

“Sure.” Aaron stepped aside to make more room for Spencer at the counter. “You can soften the butter in the microwave.” Spencer was relieved Aaron gave him an easy, doable job, and he went to do as he was told. 

The sleeves of Spencer’s shirt refused to stay rolled up and kept slipping down his arms into the food. By the third time, Aaron helped him dust the flour from the cuffs of his sleeves. Spencer ducked his head in embarrassment. “Is there another clothing option I’m missing here?” 

Aaron blew a hushed snort out his nose. “You can either wear this or a child’s Spiderman shirt that would fit you like a crop top. Your choice.” 

Spencer gave him a mild look. “Which one will Morgan make less fun of?” 

“Uncertain. He’s got plenty to work with no matter which you choose.” Aaron opened the kitchen drawer. He pulled out a little box of safety pins and popped one open. “Hold still. Don’t move.”

“Ow!” 

“I said  _ don’t move. _ ”

Spencer chewed the inside of his cheek, trying not to fidget while Aaron stuck another pin in the sleeve, and again, he stuck Spencer. “Ouch! Okay, stop—if you’re going to torture me, I’ll wear the Spiderman shirt. I’ve been through enough.”

With a poignant smile upon his face, Aaron’s gaze moved from the sleeves of Spencer’s shirt up to his face, and a certain ambivalence crossed his expression, something he didn’t know how to say, and Spencer wanted to ask, but he didn’t know how to interrupt Aaron’s train of thought, and before he had the opportunity to do it, Aaron said, “I may have something else.” He popped the pins out of Spencer’s sleeves and put them away. “C’mon.” 

Following him back to the bedroom, Spencer wanted to ask,  _ Why didn’t we start with this? _ but Aaron wore a wistful expression, and when he saw the look on his face, Spencer had too much reverence to interfere with it. Aaron opened his closet again and rifled around—not through the hangers, but on the floor, shifting boxes around, until in the very back corner, he opened one of the cardboard boxes and shook out a fuzzy pink sweater and a pair of jeans, or maybe denim capris. 

At any rate, they were much more suited to Spencer than his current apparel. “Oh. Thanks.” A sweater and jeans? Much more his style than a Spiderman tee or an oversized dress shirt and baggy pants.  _ Why do you have a fuzzy pink sweater in your closet? _ Spencer knew better than to ask. He took the clothes and again scooted off to the bathroom. 

Unbuttoning the shirt and the pants, he wriggled into the sweater. It fit more comfortably than Aaron’s shirt, large through the chest and with a slight V to the neck, but still more snug than the other shirt. His arms fit through the sleeves without a struggle. The jeans, or capris, required a lot of cinching from Spencer’s belt; they were made with wide hips, and the legs weren’t nearly long enough, though the breadth was fine. 

The clothes fit better than the first set, that was certain, but they still fit strangely. 

Spencer spun around as he looked at himself in the mirror. On the butt of the jeans, on each back pocket, string patterns of butterflies and rhinestones decorated the denim.  _ Oh. _ Spencer tried to stick his thumbs in the pockets, but they wouldn’t open. Fake pockets. 

_ These are women’s clothes. _

Aaron had given him Haley’s clothes. 

Meeting his own gaze in the mirror, Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Wearing a dead person’s clothes—Spencer wasn’t familiar with any lore about the spiritual ramifications of wearing a dead person’s clothes, but he had to assume most would consider it bad karma.  _ Or at least in bad taste. _

But Aaron had given them to him. He wouldn’t have done it if he weren’t okay with it, Spencer thought. And Spencer didn’t exactly have a lot of options as to what to wear; he wouldn’t until they allowed him back into his apartment to collect some things, and the idea of that filled him with existential dread—having to reenter his apartment and clean it up, clean up the blood, rearrange his things, push his sofa back where it belonged, pick up all of his books from the floor and place them in the order he liked, washing and replacing all of his pots and pans… 

He preferred wearing Haley’s clothes to the notion of having to do all of that just to find a sweater vest.

Clearing his throat, Spencer adjusted his glasses. He could smell the pancakes frying in the kitchen. Exiting the bathroom, he reentered the kitchen, the sound of oil sizzling as Aaron flipped the pancakes on the stove. “Is it okay if I add chocolate chips?” Aaron asked without turning around, and Spencer saw himself reflected in the shiny pots above the stove, how Aaron had seen him without turning. 

“Sure.” Spencer tiptoed up behind him.  _ Chocolate chip pancakes. Is that really what we want to eat this morning? _ It didn’t seem appropriately somber. 

Then again, nothing seemed appropriately somber about this, and Spencer couldn’t say he would change anything about it. 

He put an arm around the small of Aaron’s back. Aaron reached and put an arm around his waist, as well, pulling him in closer. He turned his head toward Spencer. Spencer lifted his chin toward him, kissing him. The hand on his waist squeezed him. Somehow, Aaron handled him even gentler than before. 


End file.
